


Not to Beg Any Boon

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2003-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3743643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my version of Boromir’s journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered “all alone.” I have chosen to people (or ‘creature’) that journey with some OCs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sticks and Stones: in which Boromir Passes an Uncomfortable Night

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

He woke in a cold sweat. The dream again. Trying to get his bearings in the dark, he reached out a hand that trembled slightly. His fingers encountered pebbles and wet leaves.

Drawing back his hand, Boromir cursed himself for a fool. He cursed aloud, even though there was none to hear it. The evening before, after another long day of riding, he had felt no nearer to his goal. Exhausted and disheartened, he simply stopped in the grey twilight and made a small, smoky fire from whatever branches were close to hand. He had spread his blanket out beside it, not even clearing a patch of ground, and fallen into a heavy sleep.

He would not have accepted such a ‘camp’ from the greenest of his soldiers. The ground was still soaked from the rain the day before. The damp had seeped up through the thin padding and even through his fur-lined cloak. Now he was stiff and chilled and just as weary as when he first closed his eyes. And the dream, again.

A knob of something pressed against his hip-bone. The little fire was long since out. With a sound between a sigh and a grunt, Boromir sat up slowly and sank his head into his hands. He sighed again.

Then a small, wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth. That a dream should have landed him here – he, of all people – appealed to his sense of irony. Faramir was the dreamer in the family, not he. Captain-General of all the armies of Gondor, High Warden of the White Tower, first in line to the Stewardship of an ancient and noble kingdom: here he sat, alone on a bed of leaves and rocks, lost and far from home. And, if he was not very much mistaken, with a large insect of some sort crawling up his leg. So much for dreams.

His fastidious younger brother might have smiled to see him in such a state. No, Faramir was doubtless still too angry with him to smile. The dream came first to Faramir, and that was no cause for wonder. Since they were children, he seemed to live half in another world of dreams and visions.

Faramir had always loved tales of the past glories of Gondor and Númenor, and even more those of elves and ents and still unlikelier creatures. Yet, finally, the dream had come to Boromir as well, to one who had little use for dreams and even less for visions.

He needed some rest before dawn. He felt under the blanket to locate the knobbly thing. Not a rock. A large stick. He dragged it from under the blanket and tossed it irritably into the surrounding trees, where it landed with a thump. There was a soft rustling sound from the underbrush. Something moved in protest at having its sleep disturbed. Boromir held still for a moment, then slowly put his hand on the sword that lay beside him, hoping that whatever it was would settle back down.

It did. After a long moment, he drew his hand back from the sword, turned on his side and pillowed his head in the crook of an arm. His eyes refused to close. He stared unseeing into the darkness and heard again the voice of the dream. “Doom is near at hand.” It needed not a dream to tell him this.

As a child, he had listened with Faramir to his father’s histories of ancient Númenor and his mother’s stories of elves and wizards. When he came of age and took his place in Gondor’s army, he put away such fantasies.

The tale of his own life was spun of duty and honor, pain and loss, dominated by the battles against the dark forces that threatened the land he loved, the people he loved. As he came to full manhood, the foes of Gondor increased in number and strength, fed by the power of the Black Land to the East. He fought so that others could dream in safety.

Still, the dream came to him, making the threat against his beloved Gondor seem even more mysterious and their need more urgent, while hinting at some possible salvation beyond their borders.

The dream-voice spoke of Imladris, a name Boromir had never before encountered. His father, learned in the lore of Gondor, told them that it referred to a place hidden in the north where Elrond Half-Elven dwelt. In the Common Tongue, men called it Rivendell. According to Denethor, many had heard of Elrond’s House, but few knew any longer exactly where to find it.

He set out weeks ago, over the protests of both father and brother, to make his way there somehow, seeking something. He was not sure in his own mind exactly what he sought. He had little hope for any practical help from the elves. Gondor had few who could be counted on to come to her aid in this dark time. If not help, at least some wisdom that might aid him in his desperate desire to see Gondor survive the assault coming from the Nameless Land.

Nameless. He knew its name well enough, though he preferred not to think of it. Those in Gondor seldom spoke it aloud. He remembered part of a verse of one of the tales Faramir loved, about some elven-king or other who had ridden away long ago and been lost. He still remembered part of the verse: “… and where he dwelleth none can say; for into darkness fell his star, in Mordor where the shadows are.”*

Would he too fall into darkness, far away from his own land? He shivered against the thought and the dampness, and curled up more tightly within his fur-lined cloak. Finally, he slept.

 

 

He woke to a pale, misty dawn, unusually cold for the first week in September. The sun, almost white against the white mist, seemed tangled in the dark trees to the East as Boromir cast an anxious eye back the way he had come. What was happening at home?

He walked over to see how Balaróf fared. The big horse tossed his head in greeting, and Boromir smiled. The beautiful, light grey stallion had been a gift from the Rohirrim when he passed through their land on his journey.

Théodred, son of the Lord of the Mark, had listened closely to his terse account of the situation in Gondor and his quest. He had given Boromir what advice he could of the road ahead and food for the journey. He also warned Boromir away from seeking an audience with his father, Théoden, hinting at a division within the Court concerning how to deal with the threat from the East.

Frowning, Théodred had said, “I can give you little help in this, but what help I can give, I will.” He called for Balaróf, one of finest of his own horses.

“We are loathe to part with our horses,” he said, “for we consider them members of our own households. Yet you have need of strength and swiftness to ride ahead of the approaching darkness. This is Balaróf. He is yours, for his courage and strength are a match for your own, son of Denethor. May he aid you in your quest.”

Boromir had felt unexpected moisture in his eyes as he grasped Théodred’s arm in mute gratitude and understanding. Gondor’s allies seemed few of late, but the Rohirrim had ever been there at need. He rode away from Rohan, his heart somewhat lighter, in spite of Théodred’s veiled warnings of trouble in Rohan, strengthened for the journey ahead.

The stallion had indeed proved himself a boon, not only strong and fast, but an unexpected companion in the lonely trek. The Steward’s son was now in the habit of discussing his past, his future, his problems and his fears with the calm, long-limbed animal. Bal, he was sure, in some measure understood it all.

He thought of trying to find some game, building a fire. Then it started raining, softly at first, the drops making a pleasant sound on the leaves. Then harder. Boromir swore softly. Balaróf ducked his head in protest. “Sorry, Bal.” He clapped the horse’s neck lightly in commiseration. This was the fourth straight day of rain.

He had one change of clothing in his saddlebags, doubtless still damp from the day before. He should have tried to make a bigger fire last night and at least attempted to dry his shirt and breeches. Reaching into one of the bags, he took out a piece of cold rabbit, the only thing he had left to take the edge off his hunger. At the moment, he would gladly have traded places with Faramir and wished him joy of this wretched journey.

As Boromir gnawed on the bone of the rabbit leg to get what meat he could to fill his empty belly, his mind gnawed on the parting with his brother. They had parted badly, to his regret. Since the dream had come to Faramir first, and often, he had insisted that he was the one to undertake the journey. Perhaps rightly.

He had loved and protected his brother since their earliest childhood, especially since their mother’s death. Faramir was long since grown, an able warrior and leader of men. Still, Boromir’s heart misgave him when he thought of his brother undertaking such a task. The journey would be uncertain, long, filled with unknown dangers. He thought himself the stronger and hardier of the two. He would let no harm come to Faramir, if he could prevent it.

He felt in his heart that this journey would end in a death, though whose death was unclear to him. Boromir knew that he was not fanciful, and he trusted his soldier’s instincts. He was determined that the death would not be Faramir’s, at least not as a result of this journey.

Of course, he had told neither his father nor his brother any of this. He had simply insisted to them that he was the elder, the stronger, the more likely to succeed. He had thus deeply offended Faramir with his seeming arrogance, his usurpation of a quest that Faramir believed was by right his own.

His father also had been reluctant to let him go. He had obtained his Denethor’s grudging consent with the hint that Faramir would be less likely to uphold the interests of Gondor in the stronghold of the elves.

Boromir's lips tightened as he thought of the manipulation behind that ploy. He despised himself for playing to his father’s distrust of his younger son, for using his own sure knowledge that, as far as Denethor was concerned, statecraft would always trump any concern he had for either of his sons.

He supposed he was his father's son, after all; he had thought it necessary and bowed to expediency. And, indeed, it had served his purpose well. So here he stood in the pouring rain, chewing on a bone. He threw it into the bushes, in case last night’s visitor was still lurking about to enjoy what was left.

He saddled Bal and together they picked their way further up what had turned out to be the ghost of the old South Road, fallen into disrepair and often barely discernable as a road. They were headed, he fervently hoped, for the ford over the River Greyflood at Tharbad. From there, he intended to pick up the faint road again and head north. He had seen on some old maps a town called Bree. It seemed to lie at the intersection of the Great East Road and what used to be, at least, the North Road. Surely there, if anywhere, he could pick up some hints about the location of the Elven fastness of Imladris.

~~~~~

* From _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , “A Knife in the Dark,” ‘The Fall of Gil-galad.'


	2. Fording Greyflood: in which Boromir Loses His Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

Boromir rode all morning through flat fenlands, with Balaróf picking his way gingerly along the broken road that often lost itself entirely in marshy patches, marked by pools of water with tussocks of low grasses poking up through them.

The rain came down steadily. Bal arched his neck and pulled on the bridle a bit, frustrated, Boromir was sure, by their slow pace. Boromir reached up and scratched under his light-grey mane. “I know, Bal. You and I are both out of our element here. You long to fly over the green plains of Rohan, and I to be on the battlements of my White City. But we are old campaigners, you and I.”

Old campaigners. Was he on a campaign that would help Gondor, or was he on a fool’s errand? Should he have stayed to command the forces that were all that stood between Minas Tirith and the growing darkness? He was, after all, the Captain-General of her armies. Had he deserted her in her hour of greatest need? That, at least, is what Faramir had almost implied during their last bitter meeting.

They had said their farewells the night before, or so he thought. Faramir seemed at last to have accepted the roles that Boromir had assigned them in this. Just as when they were boys. His young brother had usually been content to accept whatever role he, as elder, had assigned him in their games. Usually, he smiled slightly to himself, that of defeated enemy or trusted counselor. Boromir always claimed the role of victorious warrior and leader of men.

Well, now he had thrust that role, coveted in their boys’ games, onto Faramir: he to take over command of Gondor’s defenses, Boromir to go alone to seek counsel that might, in the end, avail them nothing.

His brother had stepped out of the shadows beside the doorway into the courtyard of the King’s House, just as Boromir prepared to go out into the day that was beginning to dawn. Faramir’s eyes were dark, as were the circles under them.

“Please, listen to me,” he had said, his voice low and urgent. “Gondor needs you here. Our father’s strength fails, as well you know. You are her heart, and you must be her arm against evil now, as well. Let me go in your stead, I beg of you.”

Boromir stopped, at once moved and exasperated. “My reasons for going have not changed. I will not discuss it further. Faramir, I would have you here. You are an able commander. I trust you with all that I love. Do not fail me.”

“Trust?” His small, bitter laugh cut at Boromir’s heart. “Do you trust me with the elves?”

“How came you to hear of that? No, do not answer. I know too well. I did not mean it,” Boromir had said, somewhat desperately. “'Tis just that the journey is dangerous, uncertain. I will not risk your life on what may be a fool’s errand.”

“Which of us is the fool?” Faramir’s voice was still quiet, but intense. “You leave the City to a commander who is not as seasoned or as well-beloved as the old. Is it not true? And I have more experience in the wilds than you. I am the better tracker. Boromir, this makes no sense.” He reached out a hand, in plea or friendship.

Boromir took the hand in both of his, but said firmly, “It does to me, and the decision is mine. If I am Gondor’s heart, Faramir, you are its intellect. She needs that now, full as much as heart; our father needs it more.”

His brother looked at him for a long moment, his eyes accusing him of that which remained unsaid. Then Faramir withdrew his hand, turned, and left without a word.

~~~

 

Suddenly, Bal stumbled, a hoof sinking into a hole hidden by mud and water. Thrown forward onto the horse’s neck, Boromir shifted to try to help him steady himself, then reined him in. He dismounted and bent to feel down along the animal’s leg. Bal nudged his back gently with his nose.

“Just a moment,” Boromir addressed him softly. He leaned against the flank, making the horse shift his weight so that he could better probe for possible damage. Satisfied that he had taken no injury, Boromir placed the hoof back on the ground. Straightening, he wiped his muddy hands on his cloak. He slapped Bal’s dappled flank lightly and said, “No harm done, but we’ll walk for a while.” So forward they went, down the broken road and through the marshy patches, Boromir’s boots squelching as he walked.

He looked around him at the flat fens: no trees, no shelter, no clean water. Then, on the horizon, he saw something rising above the flatness. Stonework sticking up into the sky. “Let’s see what’s up ahead,” he said, stopping and remounting. Within an hour’s time, he could make out a broad river and what looked like ruins on the shore. “By all rights, my fine friend, that should be Tharbad,” he said with relief. At last, a landmark.

Another hour and he and Bal stood looking at what had been the ruins of an enormous stone bridge. Its flanks still stood tall on either bank, but the huge stones of the span had fallen into the river. The water swirled and eddied around them, making a white spray of rapids across the length of the river. Boromir dismounted while he gauged the crossing. Bal cropped at some stunted bushes to the side of the road. Low grasses and vines grew among the ruins of what had once been a settlement that looked as if it had been deserted for centuries.

The stones and rapids made the crossing look treacherous. Days of rain had swelled the river far up its banks. Looking up and down its length, he saw no better alternatives. Rain fell steadily.

Boromir walked over to his horse and gathered up the reins that were trailing loosely on the ground. Bal lifted his nose from the bushes and pushed at Boromir’s chest. “Yes, I want to go on as much as you do. No help for it; we’ll cross here.” He remounted and looked out over the river.

As far away from home as he had felt before, somehow he felt that in crossing the Greyflood he would leave the world he knew behind. Weeks had already passed since he had left Minas Tirith. What was happening at home? What awaited him on the other side? He guided Bal slowly into the water.

It was even deeper than he had feared. The currents swirled fast around the horse’s legs. He grasped the saddle tightly between his knees and loosened his hold on the bridle, letting Bal try to find his own footing. As they approached the middle of the river, the water rose past Boromir’s feet and was still rising, swift and flecked with white.

Suddenly, the bottom seemed to drop out from beneath them. The water was up to Bal’s neck as he struggled to swim out of the currents that pulled at them in two different directions at once. Boromir lost the stirrups in the swirling water, and he felt himself losing his grip on the saddle. Cursing, he reached for Bal's mane, but the water swiftly and inexorably pulled him away. Weighted down by a leather surcoat and mail, he sank beneath the surface of the river.

~~~

 

He woke, choking. What had happened? He tried to sit up and get his bearings, but his eyes were watering. He could not get his breath. Then he felt a gentle touch on his heaving back. “There now, sir, best to get it all up. Here’s a basin.”

He reached for it gratefully, coughing up water and mucus, mixed with some blood, into the waiting bowl. He lay back down again, shuddering and weak, his throat raw. At his eye level he saw a white sheet on which he seemed to be resting. At its edge were two small brown hands, still holding the basin. He coughed again, then drew a breath. He lifted his head a fraction and saw, attached to the brown hands, a small, brown-skinned…man? Boromir was not sure.

“What is this place? What happened?” He was shocked by the weakness of his own voice.

“You was almost drownded, sir, not two hours past. Seen your horse go down with you, did me and Jeth. We was out fishing near the ford when we seen you tryin’ to cross. "‘Bless me, Morby,’ says he, ‘but that fool…' beggin’ your pardon, sir… 'but that Man don’t ought to be crossin’ today, what with the rain like we’ve had and not knowin’ the river as I’m sure he don’t.’”

Just then another spasm of coughing took Boromir. He reached for the basin.

When he woke again, he was able to breathe a bit more easily. The pounding in his head had not gone away, and his chest felt as if something large and ungainly had sat upon it for a considerable time. His chest felt tight, and he looked down to see white strips of cloth bound tightly around his torso. The same strips covered his left wrist. Well, thank the Valar he hadn’t damaged his sword arm.

He lifted the sheet over the rest of him to see what other damage he could discern. His legs seemed all right, though they had several large bruises over their length. But where were his breeches? He tried to stretch out his legs to test them, but found that, although his legs were free of pain, the bed was much too short for his entire length.

Grasping a stubby, but sturdy-looking, post at the head of the bed, he pulled himself up. He swung his legs over the edge, grasped the sheet around himself and stood up. He promptly crumpled to the floor, his head swimming alarmingly.

He had to get himself up and out of here. He still did not know where he was. Although the little person he remembered from whenever it was before seemed harmless enough, who knew but that the servants of the Enemy could appear in innocent guise. He put a hand out on the rough wooden floor, and began to slowly lift himself up again. As he did, the door opened. He looked up to see... Morby?… was that what he had said his name was? Now that he could see more clearly, he was sure this was not a Man, but something else entirely.

He was quite short, perhaps a bit under five feet tall. That certainly explained the bed. He was slightly built and bent, with wrinkled dark-brown skin. His grey hair was as short and sleek as an otter’s pelt; his eyes were sharp and hazel-bright, like trees reflected in a sun-dappled river. Boromir blinked. He had never seen such a creature before. As Morby reached out to help him regain the side of the bed, Boromir saw that his fingers were slightly webbed where they met his hands. Where in the name of Eru was he?

“Where am I? Where is my sword?” Boromir demanded. The goblins inside his head hammered away, and he closed his eyes, hoping the pain and dizziness would pass.

“Over there with your other things,” said Morby in a low, quiet voice. He’s humouring me, Boromir thought, soothed in spite of his determination to keep his wits about him. He opened his eyes, and found that, from his position sitting on the edge of the bed, they were on a level with Morby’s.

“There now.” Morby patted his knee, seemingly with approval that his charge was content to sit still for a moment. “Me and Jeth and Silla got you out of your wet things as best we could and quite a job we had of it, beggin’ your honor’s pardon, but you’re a tall one and no mistake, and you had on a good few layers what with that mail and leather and all. Jeth thought you was going to sink like a stone before we could get to you. We got you out, though, and he fetched a handcart. We loaded you up, and some of the lads helped us bring you here.”

The ford. Boromir remembered now. The river had been much swifter and much deeper than expected. He remembered Bal struggling, the water suddenly up to his neck. In spite of his best efforts, the current had swept him off the horse and into the water. He couldn’t remember what happened after that.

“My horse? Did you see…?”

“Yes, sir, we saw him. You got swept up against some rocks and went under, and he got pushed further downstream before he could get out. You didn’t come up, and by the time we got to where you was… well, it was just the two of us. He got out right enough, on the far bank. It took us a while to get you breathing and back here. One of the lads went back, but your horse weren’t nowhere to be seen.”

Boromir felt tears well up in his eyes, and he blinked them back in embarrasment. He had grown to love that big animal. They had developed a real bond during their quest together. He had trusted Balaróf as much, or more, than many of the soldiers under his command. He and Bal had seemed to fit together, somehow. They understood one another. He felt he had failed to guard Théodred’s generous gift, had brought him into the wilderness and lost him. He bowed his head, feeling exhausted and ashamed.

Morby patted his knee again. “There was nothing you could have done, sir. The river’s that trecherous at times. He didn’t seem to be hurt; he just didn’t know where you were. Like as not, he’s gone back to his stable, wherever that may be. He looked to be a strong one.” Boromir looked down at the small brown hand still on his knee.

Then he met Morby’s eyes again. “I thank you for my rescue. I am grateful for what you have done for me, but I must be on my way. Could you bring me my things?”

Suddenly a little brown-skinned woman, grey hair scraped back in a bun and a determined expression on her wrinkled face, entered the room. She must have been listening just outside the door.

“Now, sir, you just lay yourself back down there. You can’t have your clothes. They’re still soaking wet. I’ve not had the time to get them dry. Besides which you’re coughing up blood, which ain’t to be wondered at considering the way you got banged up on them rocks before they could haul you out. Like as not you’ve broken a rib, or more than one. And there’s a nasty bump on your head. I’ve called for the healer to see to you. So you just lie back and don’t fuss so.”

Boromir stiffened at this assault and opened his mouth to assert his authority over the situation. Something in this small lady’s voice and manner, however, brought to mind his old nurse Glenneth. He closed his mouth and felt a smile begin to tug at its corners.

“There now,” she said, smiling back. Because she knows she’s won, he thought. She came up to the bed, fluffed his pillow and patted it invitingly.

“Might as well do as she says, sir. Don’t do no good to contradict her, as I’ve learned.”

Boromir obediently lay back, wincing as the pain in his side caught at him.

“My name is Silla,” said the small figure, “and I’ll bring you some of my broth straight away. You need to get something warm in you.”

Boromir detested broth. “No, I thank you…” he began. She pursed her lips and went to get it.

After he had drunk the broth, which was actually not bad, Silla rewarded his good behavior by allowing Morby to stay and talk with him while they waited for Gath, the local healer.

Boromir was still unsettled by encountering a type of being he had never heard of before, much less seen. He should have paid more attention to Faramir’s beloved legends, perhaps they were in there somewhere. Their short stature called to mind the voice from his dream. One of its mysteries was a reference to a “halfling” that seemed to have some role to play in this time of doom. They stood more than half his own  
height, but could they somehow be the halflings in his dream?

“Morby, who are your people? Have you ever been called ‘halflings’?”

“Halflings? No, sir, though now that I’ve seen you, I understand all the talk of Men being big, clumsy creatures… beggin’ your pardon. You’re the first one many of the lads had seen, although we knew straight off what you was. We’re just the River Folk, leastwise that’s what we’ve always called ourselves. There aren’t many of us left along the rivers, but we’ve been here a long time. We keep ourselves to ourselves, and don’t hold much with reading and writing, so you may never have heard of us. We don’t travel much; we’re content with what the river brings us. We didn’t even stay this close to the ford back in the days when Men used it. But few Men pass through here now, and we’re not seen unless we want to be.”

“Then I’m doubly grateful that you were there at the ford and managed to get me out. I am in your debt.”

Just then, they heard a knock at the door. The healer had come. Gath looked very much like Morby, but even more bent and wrinkled. He eyes were just as bright, however, and his hands were firm but gentle. After a thorough and painful probing, Boromir was pale. The healer squeezed his shoulder in understanding, and said lightly, “Well, you’re the biggest thing Morby ever pulled out of the river and no mistake. You’ve two broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a bad bump on the head that’s a bit worrying. I think that’s all, and if it is you’re a lucky one.”

“When…” began Boromir.

“You’d be best to stay here a few days, at least until I’m sure you’re not coughing up blood anymore and the bump on your head is nothing worse than that. I’ve given Silla a poultice for your chest and some tea. If the poultice and the tea do their work, you’ll not develop an inflammation of the lung and won’t be in bed for a month.”

“A month!”

“Not if you do what Silla says.” Gath looked at him sternly, as if daring him to call for his clothes again.

Boromir felt frustrated, grateful, and managed, all at once. “Thank you,” was all he could think of to say.

Gath gave his shoulder a parting pat in approval. Boromir felt ten years old again and was surprised to find it a strangely comforting feeling.

Silla came in with a cup of pungent tea. After sipping obediently at the loathsome brew, he found the most comfortable position he could in the too-short bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Back to the River: in which Boromir Goes Fishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The oath that I incorporated into Boromir's coming-of-age ceremony is, of course, taken from Pippins oath to Denethor in The Return of the King, Minas Tirith.

He woke to sun streaming through the window over his cramped bed, the smell of fish frying, and an unaccustomed feeling of peace. The river had brought him to a strange place indeed, but it seemed safe enough. His worries for Gondor and those he left behind still shadowed his mind, but the river had cast him off his intended path for a time.

He felt curiously free of responsibility for the moment. He had not known such freedom for many years. No clothes, no chain mail. No horn, no sword. In spite of the pain, his body seemed smaller and lighter, freed from the trappings that defined who and what he was. They hadn’t even asked his name. He pulled himself up and leaned against the head of the bed. His head still swam, and his stomach lurched. Closing his eyes again, he let a small sigh escape him. In spite of the bindings around his chest, some tightly coiled something inside him loosened a bit.

He opened his eyes again as he heard a movement at the door. Silla came in, smiling and bearing a tray with fish and bread and what looked like a mug of ale (not, he thanked the Valar, Gath’s foul brew).

“Good afternoon, sir. You’ve slept the clock round, and that’s a good sign. You could do with some food, I’m sure.” She deposited the tray on his knees. “There now.” Then, as if reading his mind, “After you eat, I’ll make up that poultice for your chest, and you must have some more of the healer’s tea.”

“I thank you, my lady, for all your kindness…,” he began.

“Get on with you! You don’t need to be calling me ‘lady.’ Silla will do fine. Morby’s always bringing stray things home with him. One more or less makes no difference to me.”

“I thank you all the same, Silla. My name is Boromir.”

She pulled up a small chair and sat beside him while he ate. “So where is it you’re from, Master Boromir, and how came you to Greyflood, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He smiled. Master Boromir, indeed. Yes, she did remind him of Glenneth. He found himself telling her of Gondor as he ate, of the beauties of its mountains and rivers, the faded glory that was Minas Tirith.

“Seven walls!” She looked at him in wonder. “Well, I never! We’d heard of cities to the East, but I never imagined they were so grand.” She continued, her voice softening, “You miss your home, don’t you?”

Boromir simply nodded, his mouth full of fish.

“And what of your people? Your parents, brothers, sisters? You must miss them as well.” She didn’t ask directly, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

He found that he wanted to tell this comfortable little creature about himself and his family. So, as the sun sank lower in the sky, and through the applying of the poultice, he talked. Perhaps it was simply that it was good to have someone, other than poor Bal, to talk to after so much time alone.

She asked about his mother, so he told her something of beautiful, smiling Finduilas, about her laughter, her stories, her songs. About how she loved the sea, how her face would grow wistful when she talked of the smell of the air and the cry of the seabirds in the home she had left to marry their father. He acknowledged that she had died when he and his brother were young, but then stopped. He still could not talk about his mother’s death.

Into the little silence, Silla said, “It’s time for that tea.” She went off to make it. When she returned, she held the steaming cup out to him and said, “Tell me more about your brother.”

At some point, Morby came in, stood listening for a moment, then went to fetch another chair. He sat down with a mug of something of his own and a small pipe that looked to be made of clay. He sipped quietly while Boromir talked, asking a question now and again.

Boromir talked a little of his father, explaining to them about his position as Steward. Mostly he talked about Faramir. Morby and Silla laughed at his stories of their childhood, especially the one about the three dogs, the weasel and the Council Chamber.

“And you the Steward’s sons!” Morby grinned, knocking out his pipe. “Wasn’t your father angry?”

“Oh, yes, we suffered his wrath often enough. But it was worth it.” Boromir smiled, then his smile faded. “Usually.”

“He sounds a hard man,” Morby said.

Boromir shook his head, his lips tight, wordless for a moment. Then, reluctantly, “Not always. Of late, perhaps, he has had to be. He and Faramir have always… I would not have you think.…” His voice trailed off.

“Now, Master Boromir,” Silla said, “you’re tired. It’s time we leave you, and you try to get some more sleep.”

“But Silla,” said Morby, “He still hasn’t told us what he’s doing here so far from home.”

“It will keep 'til later.”

“But….”

“It will keep. He’s not going anywhere. For one thing, I've got his clothes.”

Morby and Boromir exchanged speaking looks.

“Before you go, may I have my sword and my horn for a few moments? I must see if there is any damage from the water that I can remedy before it is too late.”

“Horn?” Morby sounded puzzled.

Boromir’s heart froze. “Yes, a large ox-horn, curved, tipped with silver. It was attached to my belt.”

“I’m sorry,” said Morby, seeing the look on his face. “It weren’t on you when we got you out. Just your sword and a knife and pouch on your belt. Your saddle and your shield were up against some big rocks a bit downstream, but if you had saddle-bags or anything else, they was gone.”

Boromir's face went white. He swung his legs to the side of the bed, then stilled as the pain from the broken ribs shot through him. He bowed his head, exasperated at his weakness. First Bal, now this. He looked up. “That horn has been passed from eldest son to eldest son in the Steward’s line time out of mind. I must find it.”

Silla and Morby exchanged glances. “It’s been over a day,” said Morby, “but if it can be found, you’re not the one to do it. We know the river, you don’t. You stay here, sir. You can’t do no good on the river. Me and some of the others will search for it. I’ll get them now, before the sun sets.”

Boromir felt helpless and useless. The Horn of Gondor. One more loss on this ill-fated journey. What next? Slowly he nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Morby went out to gather a search party.

Silla urged him to sleep, but he could not. She sat with him and told him stories of the River Folk while they waited. He heard little of them.

After a while, she said, “Tell me about this horn you set such store by.”

“It has been in my family for many generations. 'Tis an old and beautiful thing, the horn of a wild ox, bound about with silver. It is said that if your need is great and you blow it anywhere within our ancient realms, it will be heard and help will somehow come to you. At his coming-of-age ceremony, the Steward’s heir receives the horn.” He stopped.

“I don’t know much about the doings of such grand folk,” Silla said after a moment. “Tell me about the ceremony.”

“I was all of fourteen,” said Boromir, smiling slightly, remembering. “I stood in the Great Hall before the Steward’s Chair. All of the Council was there, my uncle Adrahil, Faramir… all of them. I knelt before my father, and very important did I feel, I may tell you. I presented my sword to him and swore the oath of fealty.”

Boromir closed his eyes, put out his hands on imaginary sword-hilts and said, in a ringing tone, “Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Boromir son of Denethor of Gondor.”

“All that talk of death and the world ending," Silla said, a note of disapproval in her voice, "Goodness!”

Boromir opened his eyes, his hands dropping to rest on his knees. “So pledge all soldiers who would serve Gondor. After I took the oath, my father raised me to my feet. He took the Great Horn from his belt and held it out to me. ‘Eldest son of eldest son, I pass to you the Horn of Vorondil. Today you are a man among men, guard it and Gondor well.'”

His voice faltered and he looked down at his hands. “Guard it and Gondor well,” he repeated softly. He has lost the one. Would he lose the other? He felt Denethor’s eyes boring into him across the small space that had separated them at the ceremony long ago. The flames from the surrounding torches had flickered in his father’s eyes. Testing, probing, Denethor's eyes asked him if he was worthy to sit in the Steward’s chair one day. Could he could give his whole love and devotion to the kingdom they held in trust for a king who had not come, who might never come?

He had spent his life since that day trying to answer those questions, to live his oath. He had given Gondor his love in a single-minded devotion to duty, paying the price of that love time and again in his own blood and the blood of many friends. But would it be enough against the darkness that reached toward her from the East?

Much later, they heard voices outside. Then Morby, wet and with mud still clinging to his clothes and hands, stood in the frame of the door. His shoulders were more bent than Boromir remembered, and his face was sad.

“I’m sorry, sir, we looked all along the river’s edge and down into the water. We looked under what rocks and roots we could. There’s no sign of it.”

Boromir cleared a sudden roughness in his throat and said, with exquisite courtesy, “Indeed, I am sorry to have put you and your friends to so much trouble. Thank you for trying. I bid you goodnight.” In the set lines of his face and the tone of his voice, they felt for the first time the whisper of an ancient authority. Silla almost curtsied, then thought better of it. She put her hand on Morby’s arm, and they left Boromir to his thoughts.

~~~

 

Two days passed. Boromir slept and ate Silla’s excellent food. He also choked down innumerable cups of Gath’s tea, which did not improve upon acquaintance. He suffered the regular application of warm poultices to his chest, as well as Silla’s regular probing of the lump on his head and his family relationships. Gradually, the pain and dizziness subsided. He did not get the inflammation of the lungs that the healer had threatened. Boromir shuddered to think what the cure for that might have been.

Though he mourned the loss of the horn, he reconciled himself to it. As Silla often said, “What can’t be mended, best not minded.” She treated him, increasingly, with the same affectionate tartness with which she favored Morby. On the afternoon of the third day, she returned his shirt, breeches and tunic to him, washed and well mended, and allowed him to leave his bed to sit in a chair in the little house’s other room.

Boromir settled into the small chair, which creaked alarmingly under his weight, his long legs sticking out at an awkward angle. He looked around the small room. It was warm with old wood and bright fabrics here and there. It contained a tiny kitchen, a table and four wooden chairs, one of which he was sitting on. There were a couple of larger chairs with rush-woven seats by a fireplace.

When he saw it, Boromir was aghast. “Silla, where have you and Morby slept?”

“On the floor, and don’t you make a fuss about it either, Master Boromir.”

“But…”

“We have plenty of blankets for padding, and we’re in a site better shape than you for sleeping on the floor.”

Boromir rose, with some effort, from the chair. “I will not allow it.”

“Oh, ho!” Silla said. “Well, you may be a fine lord in Minas Whatever-Its-Name-May-Be, but I’m mistress in my own house. Don’t be telling me what you will and won’t allow.”

Boromir was flummoxed. He usually commanded instant obedience.

“Here,” said Silla, holding out a basket of small, gnarled apples that Morby had brought in earlier. “You can make yourself useful instead of arguing with me. Go outside and peel them and cut them up. Here’s a knife. There’s a bench outside where you can sit in the sun. Do you good.”

He drew himself up to his full height, and set his jaw, ready to have it out about the bed. Silla drew herself up to her own full height, admittedly not very high. She stared up at him, eyebrows raised, visibly unimpressed. He laughed and reached for the basket.

As he went out the door, she called after him, “And mind you get out all the cores!”

~~~

 

A week after his ill-fated attempt to cross the Greyflood, Morby came into his room very early in the morning. Boromir yawned and looked at him in surprise. “Get you dressed, Master Boromir, we’re going fishing,” he whispered. “And be quiet about it, ‘cause Silla don’t know as I’m takin’ you. She’s still asleep. What she don’t know, she can’t stop.”

Boromir thought about the times that he and Faramir, quite small and forbidden to leave the King’s House without escort, had stolen past a sleeping Glenneth and escaped to the Anduin to fish. He dressed with great stealth. He and Morby, both holding their boots carefully before them, crept past the bundle on the floor. A floorboard creaked. They froze, Morby looking wide-eyed at Boromir. The bundle shifted, but did not awaken. They made it out the door and into the fresh morning.

It smelled of green, growing things. He could hear the river, not too far distant. The dawn was just a pearly glimmer through the trees, the moon still high. The little riverman reached under the wooden bench beside the door and pulled out two poles and a basket of tackle. He handed the poles to Boromir, and they set off down a well-used track toward the Greyflood.

Morby led him to what was obviously a favorite spot. He took a small spade from the basket and handed it over wordlessly. Boromir started digging in the rich earth on the riverbank and soon turned up several fine worms. How it all came back to him. Faramir had never liked this part of the adventure. He passed a couple of lively specimens over to Morby, not breaking the companionable silence of the morning. Threading a couple on his own hook, he sat on a fallen tree trunk right beside the bank and lowered his line into the Greyflood.

They sat quietly side by side for a considerable time, looking out over the river, waiting for a bite. Then Morby said, “Care to tell me what you’re doing here, Master Boromir?”

Boromir started, brought suddenly out of his thoughts of Faramir, the Anduin and home. He had dreaded this moment. Morby and Silla’s care of him deserved some sort of explanation of his presence here, but what was he to tell them? He did not want to frighten these gentle folk that he had come to respect and, yes, care for.

“Don’t you trust us?” said Morby, hurt in his voice.

Trust, again. “Of course I do, it’s just that….” He hesitated.

“I’ve always been one that likes to look trouble in the face, rather than have it sneak up on me from behind.”

“Trouble?” Boromir said it as neutrally as he could.

“Well, it’s as plain as the nose on your face you ain’t jauntering out here, so far from home, just to see the sights.”

Boromir’s mouth twitched. “True.”

“I asked myself what somebody who’s the son of what’s near enough the king of a big place like this Gondor would be doing out here alone,” Morby continued. “Because he don’t want to be seen going where he’s going. Am I right?”

“Near enough, in part at least.”

“Well, me and Silla can tell you’re a good Man, so whatever it is you’re up to has got to be for a good purpose.”

“Morby, you cannot know that. These are dark times, in some parts of the world, at least. You must be careful who you trust. You do not know me.”

“Yes, we do, Master Boromir. As I was sayin’, you’ve a good purpose in mind, so why would you hide it? Because you’re an enemy of the Dark Ones. That’s what me and Silla decided, leastways. So we’ll do whatever we can to help you.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a moment.

Morby laughed. “Bless you, son, we may keep ourselves to ourselves, but we’re not daft.”

“I never thought you were. I did not want frighten you with an evil that I hope will never come to this place. Not if I can help prevent it. The less you know about it the better. I will not involve you in it.”

“It’s already come,” Morby said, his face grim. “It’s best you take whatever help you can, like it or not.”

“What?” Boromir was startled.

“We’d heard rumors over the years from the few travelers that passed this way, dwarves mostly. But the wide-world rarely troubled us. Come summer, though, we started hearing things about trouble to the East. Creatures of all sorts were on the move. A few folk passed through here. We gave them food and helped them as we could. They told us of dark things. Just shadows, some said. Others said black horsemen. Whatever they were, they scared folk half to death. Lots of them were going West because they was afraid of what was coming.”

Boromir sat very still, saying nothing. He shivered underneath the warmth of the sun, thinking of Osgiliath. He remembered a dark shadow under the moon and the fear he had felt, unlike the fear of battle.

Morby looked at him sharply. “I see you know what I mean.” Boromir nodded.

“Then, they came here, just two days before you tried to cross the river.”

“Who came here?”

“There was two of 'em. I was out with Jeth, fishing down by the ford, right about where we found you. It was just dusk, the fifth of September, near as I reckon it. They come out of nowhere. Big, they was, and on big black horses. They had black robes on, and you couldn’t see their faces. We was fishing from the bank. I don’t think they saw us in the shadows of the trees.”

“They come right down to the edge of the water on the far bank, but they couldn’t seem to cross it. After a while, they took themselves off. I’d never seen anything like 'em before, but I know badness when I see it. They was looking for something or someone, and up to no good at all, as I’m sure.”

Black horsemen. If they were indeed from Mordor, what were they doing here? Were they the same things he had seen at Osgiliath? Had they broken through Gondor’s guard, or gone around it? What could they be seeking here?

“So whatever it is,” Morby said, “it’s come here already. You don’t have to say any more just now. You think on it, then you can let us know how we can help you. Now we’d better catch some fish, or Silla’ll be that peeved.”

From the position of the sun, it was getting close to noon. Having caught what Morby thought was a sufficient number of small fish for their dinner, they began to gather their tackle to set off for home. As he bent over to reach the basket on the far side of the log, Boromir caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of one eye. There was a glint of something silvery just below the water line. Just the sun glancing off the river, he thought. Then something made him look more closely. It wasn’t a reflection. There was something in the tree roots that tangled together in the water.

“Morby, look down there. There’s something there. I’m going to take a closer look.”

Morby came and stood beside him, peering down. “No, that you’re not. I see it. I’ll go down and find out what it is. I’d as soon not drag you out of the river a second time, I thank you.”

He climbed carefully down and reached under the knotted tree roots just where they were submerged in the greyish-green water. He fumbled a moment and then turned to face Boromir, his wrinkled little face glowing. “Look!” Aloft, streaked with mud, he held the Horn of Gondor. Boromir went weak with relief and sat down abruptly on the log. Morby clambered up the bank and laid it, still dripping, on his lap.

~~~~~

Author’s notes: The oath that I incorporated into Boromir's coming-of-age ceremony is, of course, taken from Pippin’s oath to Denethor in The Return of the King, “Minas Tirith.”

Concerning the date that Morby sees the Black Riders: In “The Hunt for the Ring,” _Unfinished Tales_ , Tolkien says that in the summer after the fall of Osgiliath, the nine went northwards seeking the Ring, “and terror went before them and lingered behind them.... As the summer waned, the Lord of the Nazgûl divided his riders into four pairs and sent them forth... They passed west out of Rohan…and came at last to Tharbad... and a rumour of dread spread about them, and the creatures of the wild hid themselves, and lonely men fled away.” He also says, significantly, that by the beginning of September, Sauron had learned of the “the words of prophecy” and the “going forth of Boromir,” among other things. Without fudging the timelines too much, I thought it possible to have Boromir’s and the Nazgûls’ paths almost cross here.


	4. A Change of Plan: in which Boromir Sets Off Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

That night, after their dinner of fish and apple fritters, Morby built a fire in the little fireplace. The September evenings were turning cooler. They sat up late into the night telling stories, avoiding any mention of the Dark Ones. Some things were best left for daylight.

Morby told the tale of the large, black and undoubtedly intelligent fish that had led the ancestors of the River Folk up from the seacoast to their home in the region of Tharbad. There they had flourished for a time, long ago.

Together, Boromir and Morby told Silla of the recovery of the horn. Boromir sat with it on his knees, the fingertips of his right hand stroking the ancient characters carved along its length, and spoke of some its history. He recounted the tale of Cirion and his forces, cut off and under attack by a horde of Orcs from the mountains. Almost without hope, he had winded the Great Horn. Faint but clear from the North, horns had answered him. The horns of the Rohirrim sounded then for the first time in Gondor as the riders swept in to Cirion’s aid.

Boromir also told them the story of the second Túrin who had gone hunting alone in the wilds of Ithilien. When he was surrounded by wolves, he lifted the Great Horn to his lips, hoping for aid. As the dark beasts snarled around him and lunged at his horse’s legs, he blew one clear note. At the sound, the wolves dropped to their bellies, whining. When they found their legs again, the reddish gleam was gone from their eyes. The beasts fell into line behind Túrin’s horse, as tame as ever you might please. From that day, the pack always hunted with him, and swift, loyal, and deadly they were. Of course, none of the court would ever join his hunts after that, but he considered it a small price to pay.

As Morby and Boromir sipped a final cup of tea, Silla made up a pallet of blankets on the floor and added one pillow. “I reckon if you’re well enough to go fishing, you’re well enough to sleep on the floor, Master Boromir,” she said, trying for a stern expression. “Good night to you.”

After she went into the other room, Boromir turned to Morby. “And if I’m well enough to go fishing, I’m well enough to be on my way. I must leave tomorrow, you know, or the next day.”

Morby nodded, “I know. We’ll speak of what’s best to do in the morning.”

Boromir wished him good night and lay down in front of the still-flickering fire, enjoying the novel sensation of being able to stretch his long legs out without bumping into the end of the little bed. In spite of the uncertain road ahead, he fell asleep with a slight smile on his face.

~~~

 

In the morning, they held a council of war. Boromir told them of Mordor, the incursions against Gondor, and the fall of Osgiliath. “In spite of that, we thought we had managed to stop them at our borders. But it sounds as if at least some of them are ranging farther, Varda knows for what purpose. It bodes ill, very ill.”

“But if you didn’t know they’d come this far West, why did you leave Gondor?” asked Morby.

“Sauron’s forces seemed to grow day by day, not just in number but in power. We knew Gondor alone could not hold them for long." He told them of the dreams and his decision to seek counsel from the elves of Rivendell.

“We’ve heard tell of elves from travelers,” said Silla, “but our stories say that they’ve long since gone.”

“Apparently not. Some remain, although many have left for the West. So you have never heard of Rivendell? Or Imladris? That is how the elves themselves name it.”

“No, neither one, nor any elves anywhere near these parts, time out of mind,” Morby replied.

“Then I must follow my original plan. I had thought to take the Old North Road to a place called Bree. It seems to be a settlement where the north road crosses a road running east to west. Surely if anyone knows where Rivendell may be, it would be travelers passing to and fro. I will make for Bree and hope for news of the elves there.”

“But if them riders was on the north road,” said Silla, alarm in her voice, “they might be on it still. They may even be looking for you. Have you thought of that?”

“Yes,” Boromir said, reluctantly, “but I can hardly credit it. How would they have known of my leaving Gondor? I took care that few should know of it. Yet I can think of no other reason they would have come this far to the West. They may think to prevent me from finding any aid for Gondor, or perhaps they have some other evil purpose.”

“Whether they’re looking for you or no, best to stay off any road they’re on,” Morby said.

“I cannot wander through Middle Earth, looking for a place few have heard of and hope to stumble on it, either,” Boromir replied, his frustration apparent in the tone of his voice. “Time grows short. I can feel it. I have been here too long as it is.”

“Just because we heard of this place doesn’t mean none have,” said Morby. “Look you, I know of some folk up north in the marshes. I know one of 'em in particular who’s known to be a flighty sort, for his kind. He travels up and down the river a fair bit. Maybe he’s heard of this place.”

“Who is he? A Man?”

“Bless you, no sir.” Morby smiled. “Quillwort’s a Marshman. There’s a fair number of them scattered through the marshes up to the north and east, back on the other side of the river. They call it the Swanfleet up there. We can set out right after we’ve had a bit to eat. It’s a matter of thirty miles or so. We could make it in two days.” Boromir hesitated. What if this marshman knew nothing? Without Bal, however, the journey to Bree seemed daunting. If he had read the maps correctly, it was two hundred miles or more from Tharbad to Bree. It would take him well over a week to reach it on foot. His broken ribs were not completely healed and his strength not fully returned; he did not know what pace he could keep for days at a time. With the possibility of the dark riders on the road, would it be rash to follow it? If he had to go overland, it would take him longer, and he might end up no nearer to Rivendell in Bree, or to finding out where the place lay, than he was now.

“It’s not safe to go on the Old Road,” Morby insisted. “You’ll be no use to your Gondor, or to us for that matter, if those Dark Ones find you. Let me help you try to find this Rivendell by a safer way.”

Boromir looked at the two small figures sitting across the table from him. He had always thought of himself as the defender of the weak and innocent, of Gondor as the bulwark between Mordor and the lands of the West. It was he who should be protecting Morby and Silla, and all their like, not the other way around.

“It is too dangerous. Silla, you would never forgive me if anything happened to Morby on the road.”

“Well, that’s where you’re out,” Silla replied stoutly. “With them black things coming through here, he’s no safer at home than he would be going overland to the marshes. They might just as well come here looking for you or to do whatever black mischief it is they’re up to.”

“The more reason for Morby to stay with you,” Boromir said.

“I can take care of myself, I thank you," she said, lifting her chin as if daring him to contradict her. "The sooner you get to that Rivendell the better for all of us.”

A deep sorrow filled Boromir’s heart. The contagion from the East had touched even this peaceful place with its foulness, in spite of all the blood that Gondor had shed to prevent it. He continued looking at their worried faces for a long moment, then said, “Very well. I’ll get my things.”

~~~

 

The next morning they were faced with an enormous breakfast which Silla insisted that they eat. As she crowded plates of fish and apple dumplings and bread on the little table, she said grimly, “You don’t know what you’ll get to eat out there in the Wilds!”

As they left the house, Silla handed them a large package of food for the journey, fussed at Morby about wearing a warmer coat, and admonished Boromir to be sure not to get his feet wet in the marshes or at least be sure to dry his boots out at night. In the middle of one of her pieces of sound advice, Boromir leaned down kiss her forehead and said, “I will miss you. Thank you for everything. I will take care that Morby comes to no harm.”

“Take care that you come to no harm yourself,” she said. Her tone was sharp, but her eyes shone bright with unshed tears.

“Silla…,” Boromir began in a soft voice.

“Oh, get on with you,” she interrupted. “You’ve a ways to go before nightfall. And mind what I said about those boots!”

 

They walked north on a path beside the river, keeping a companionable silence most of the day. They forded Greyflood as the sun was setting. Morby knew of a narrow spot where the rocks would afford them a relatively dry passage. It had not rained since the day Boromir had first tried to cross the river, and it had resumed its more usual level.

They made camp on the eastern shore in a pleasant, wooded spot. Boromir built a fire while Morby laid out a supper of Silla’s bread and smoked fish. They sat by the fire for a while, Boromir munching an apple and Morby smoking his pipe. The crackling of the fire and the sounds of the tree frogs and crickets all around them made Boromir think of the times he and Faramir had camped beside the Anduin when they were boys.

They had often sat staring into the fire, or up at the stars, telling stories into the night. Boromir favoured histories of the glorious battles of Gondor, tales of danger and valour. Faramir preferred the songs of the elves that Finduilas had carefully written down for him. Strange stories they were, heavy with time and a kind of joyful sorrow that tugged at Boromir’s heart, though he would never admit it to his brother. Boromir smiled now, remembering. He had always groaned ostentatiously when Faramir began to sing of Lúthien or… what was the name? Gil something or other. But he had listened.

Boromir leaned his head back on the rough bark of the tree-trunk he was sitting up against, closed his eyes, and sighed. His brother had so loved the elves. Perhaps this was meant to be Faramir’s quest after all. In trying to keep Faramir from harm, had he set in motion a chain of events that would work to the ruin of them all?

He had not been able to save Finduilas from death. He was but ten years old when he stood looking down at her still, white face. All the laughter had fled from it. Her pale lips would not sing again. If only he had been older, stronger.

The vow he made to himself that day still burned in him. He would become a great warrior and protect those he loved. He would protect them. His oath to the Steward and to Gondor four years later was but an extension of the promise he had made to himself then. Still sitting against the tree, Boromir slept.

~~~

 

He woke to the smell of smoke. As he sat up, Morby handed him a cup of tea. Sipping the strong, bitter brew, Boromir asked, “Where does this Quillwort live?”

Morby pointed to the east. “Out in the marshes a ways. The marshfolk don’t take to settlements. They like their privacy. He’s got a place to hisself, if he’s there. Like I was saying, he travels a bit.”

Boromir’s heart sank. What would he do if he could get no help here? He closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree-trunk. He was in the middle of nowhere, long-delayed already, without a horse or supplies, and with no more idea of where Rivendell was than when he left home. What was happening there? Minas Tirith might have already fallen into shadow for all he knew. He had done nothing.

He felt Morby's hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out something. If Quill’s not there, I’ve got another idea.”

Boromir opened his eyes. “What?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. We’d best get started if we’re going to get to his place before nightfall.”

Once they left the river, the land quickly gave way to fens, treeless and flat. There was no road; they simply walked north and east. Within a couple of miles, the fens gave way to marshland. Boromir looked out over a landscape of low grasses and mosses, dotted with small bushes here and there. Channels of water, bordered by tall rushes, criss-crossed the land.

There was no straight path through the maze of water, and they often had to cross the channels. The water sometimes came up to Boromir’s knees. Even between the channels, the ground sank and squelched beneath his boots. Silla would not have been happy with the state of those boots.

They stopped when the sun was high overhead, sat cross-legged on the ground and shared a lunch of bread and apples. Boromir looked in concern at Morby, whose short legs meant that he was wetter and probably more exhausted than he. “How fare you?” he asked.

Morby grinned. “As well as you, long legs. I’ll admit I’m hoping Quill has a fire built and some supper cooking by the time we reach him. Best move on.”

And so they walked through the waning afternoon. In spite of the moist sounds that his boots were making and his nagging fear that Morby did not know where he was going, Boromir began to see some of the beauties of the land they were crossing. How long had it been since he had really looked at a landscape? He had been too preoccupied with his own worries, with the internal hills and valleys of his duties and his fears, to pay much attention to the lands through which he had travelled. He had been busy trying to keep to the often-disappearing road, always alert for danger.

Struggling slowly through the marshes, grasping onto rushes to pull himself up out of the water-channels, watching his feet so as not to stumble on a tussock of grass or moss-covered rock, he began to feel the world again. He heard a ‘kee-wick’ to his right and looked to see a small, fat black waterbird with a yellow bill flee with an indignant ‘plop’ into the water, uneasy at their approach. He took a deep breath. The air was clean and full of the smell of growing things, mingled with the peaty-dark background smell of the marsh itself.

He stopped and looked down at his left boot, which had come close to crushing a small plant that poked up from a bed of mosses. It spread out glossy green leaves and sported a brave cone of purple-red flowers. Boromir bent down to look at it more closely. Morby caught up with him and bent down, too.

“Marsh woundwort,” he said. “Here.” He carefully plucked one of the glossy leaves. Crushing it, he held it toward Boromir’s nose. It smelled like mint, clear and invigorating. Boromir smiled and straightened up. “And that there’s brooklime,” Morbysaid, indicating a patch of dark green leaves and tiny blue flowers closer to the bank of one of the water-channels. “And that over there's yellow loosestrife.”

He took Boromir’s arm and led him closer to the water. “That stuff's quillwort,” he said, pointing to a clump of green, low to the ground and running down the bank, a mass of tiny, round leaves. “The marshfolk call their children mostly by names of plants and birds. Quillwort’s lucky. He could have been Woundwort. Or Snipe.” Boromir laughed.

As the sun was setting, they came to a place where the tributaries of water widened and looked more like the fingers of a river reaching out into the flat lands. Boromir saw what seemed to be scores of white dots on the water. As they approached, the dots resolved themselves into swans. The big, proud white birds, with arched necks and black beaks, glided silently in pairs all up and down the water, as far as he could see.

“That’s why it’s called Swanfleet,” said Morby. “They seem to like it here. Quill’s place is just around that bend.” He pointed up the stream to their right

Around the bend, there was indeed a peculiar little hut, made of dried rushes bunched and tied together to make something like small logs. Boromir saw one small window and a roof thatched with rushes. He also saw, to his relief, that there was a small fire burning outside the hut. Then he saw what he assumed to be the Marshman, sitting quietly by the fire and smoking a pipe. Boromir stopped in his tracks, so suddenly that Morby bumped into him. Morby just patted him on the back and said, “I told you he weren’t a Man.”


	5. In the Marshes: in which Boromir is Befriended by an Unlikely Creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quillwort and his eel stew are small tributes to another of the Inklings. Quill is a sort of first-cousin to my favorite among Lewis characters. As with Tolkien, Lewis' characters belong to him and his estate; I'm just having a bit of fun with one of them.

Quillwort was one of the most peculiar sights Boromir had every seen. The marshman sat on a low stool in front of the fire. His very long legs, bent at the knees, stuck up past his shoulders. His torso was short and rounded, but his arms, like his legs, were long and thin. Bony fingers held a long clay pipe from which a thread of grey smoke drifted. The fingers seemed to have an extra joint or two.

The marshman caught sight of them, stood up, and walked a pace or two towards them. He was as tall as Boromir himself, but very thin. Pants and shirt of coarsely-woven brownish cloth covered his long limbs, and he wore a conical hat with a wide brim that seemed to be made of some sort of leather. His skin, what Boromir could see of it, was a peculiar muddy greenish-brown color. Lank, mud-brown hair touched his sloping shoulders. Small eyes squinted at them speculatively, and a long, thin nose beaked over a solemn-looking mouth.

There certainly were more things in Middle-Earth than Boromir had ever suspected.

As the marshman approached them, a very small smile visited his long face. He held out a hand to Morby. “Well, well. It’s many floods since I’ve seen you in the marshes. How is your good wife?” His eyes flicked to Boromir in curiosity.

“Silla’s the same as she always is. Stands no nonsense from me nor anybody else. She sent you some dried apples, knowing how you like 'em, and a box of salve for your joints. She says it does wonders when the dampness sets in.”

“Well, that may come in handy. The weather’s getting colder, and the rains will come soon. From all the signs, it’ll be a bad winter. My rheumatism’s getting worse; no denying it. Not that anything will help, I just have to bear it. I’m not as young as I was.” Quillwort looked mournful. “And what works on riverfolk likely won’t work on other folk. In fact, it might do more harm than good. But it was kindly meant, I’m sure.” He ended on a note of forced cheerfulness.

“Silla thought as how you’d say that,” replied Morby. “She said to tell you that you was to use it, and she didn’t want to hear no different.”

Boromir cleared his throat.

“Oh,” said Morby. “Quill, this is Master Boromir. He’s looking for a place he calls Rivendell, or... what was the other name you called it?" He turned to look at Boromir.

"Imladris."

"Anyway, I thought you might know where it is.”

Quillwort held out his hand. Boromir grasped it. The long fingers did indeed seem to have an extra joint in them, and the skin was cold and clammy. An unsettling sensation.

“Before we get into the why’s and where’s,” continued Morby hopefully, “a bite of supper and something warming to drink wouldn’t come amiss.”

“Come over to the fire,” said the marshman. “I’ve got some eel-stew cooked. The eels haven’t been as fat this year. I don’t know if they’ll suit your friend anyway. Marsh food and Man food might be two different things altogether.” He sighed and shook his head.

Morby nudged Boromir, who suppressed the laugh that bubbled up inside him at Quillwort’s lugubrious look and dejected voice. He schooled his mouth into a serious expression.

“Any food you are kind enough to share with us will be most welcome. I am a soldier. We learn early to be grateful for food and fire whenever we can get it.”

“A soldier. Well now, if you get sick, don’t blame me,” the marshman muttered, turning back toward the fire. Boromir noticed as he turned that his feet were bare, flat and webbed. He relished the thought of telling Faramir about Quillwort. Someday soon, he hoped.

The eel stew was delicious. Boromir ate two bowls of the savory stuff. After it was apparent that he had suffered no ill effects from marsh food, Quillwort disappeared into the house for a few moments and came back out carrying a small black bottle. He took a long drink from its contents, wiped the mouth carefully with a piece of cloth he pulled from a pocket, and passed it to Boromir.

“If that stew didn’t hurt you, I reckon this won’t either.”

Boromir took a cautious sip. His eyes watered, and warmth spread through him. He coughed once.

“Mallow brandy,” said Morby. “Quill’s got one of the best stills in the marshes. That’ll take off the night chill, and no mistake.” He reached for the bottle.

“The mallows weren’t good that year. Weather too dry in the spring,” the marshman said sadly. “Not one of my best years. I’m probably losing my touch. If you don’t like it, just say so. I wouldn’t want to insult a guest. Besides which, it might not agree with you after all. Just 'cause you’re not sick now don’t mean it’ll suit your insides later.”

Boromir reached for the bottle. They sat in a comfortable silence for a time, Morby and Quillwort puffing on their pipes, while the fire died out into embers. All around them, they heard water gently running in the channels and the soft calls of nightbirds, the croaking of frogs and the chirrings of insects.

“So it’s Rivendell you’re looking for,” said Quillwort after a time. “Why?”

Boromir explained it all again, with Morby interjecting his story of the dark riders that had come to Tharbad. The marshman listened. His long face took on an even more sober expression.

After a time, Boromir said, “Do you know of Rivendell? Can you tell me how to find it? The need is urgent.”

Seeming to ignore his question, Quillwort continued to puff on the long pipe he had refilled once since dinner. Looking into the faint, glowing remnants of the fire he said, “Well, I hadn’t seen them myself, but I’d hear rumors of darkness coming from the East. Bad times, bad times.” He shook his head.

“Quill, do you know this Rivendell?” Morby asked, his tone quiet and patient.

“Oh, I’ve heard tell of it, right enough. Somewhere upriver, to the North. Dangerous country up that way. Wolves. Trolls. Worse things, too, maybe.” He shook his head. “I’ve heard stories….” His voice trailed off.

“Just where upriver is it?” Boromir asked. “How far?”

“Well, I’ve heard that it’s up the Loudwater, but I’ve only been up as far as the Angle. That’s where the river forks. One fork’s called Hoarwell, the other Loudwater.”

“And you’re not sure which fork I should take?” Boromir suddenly stood up and started pacing.

“No, nor whether you should go that way at all. There’s trolls and beasts and who knows what else up there. It’s black country, and the river’s dangerous. Maybe you should go by the Old Road.”

“That’s just as bad, or worse,” Morby said. “That’s where them Dark Ones was searching. You haven’t seen 'em. I’d rather risk any number of wolves than run up on them again.”

Boromir stopped pacing. “Time grows short. I will chance the way by the river. Is there a path? Can you draw me a map as best you remember? Which fork do you think should I follow?”

“Well, if you’re sure you want to go by river, most of the stories say it's near the Loudwater,” Quillwort said. “I guess it’s a dark way whichever way we take.”

“We? I go alone from here.”

“You stand a better chance if I go with you. I know part of the way, and at least I have some idea of what may be up there.”

Boromir blinked. “But you said it was too dangerous. I thought you were afraid.”

“So I am,” said Quillwort mildly. He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at Boromir for emphasis. “And you’re a fool if you’re not afraid as well, soldier or no. Like as not we’ll die before we get to the elves. You may have a better chance to get there if we go with you, though.”

“We? What, you mean Morby? He’s not going,” said Boromir flatly.

“Yes, I am,” Morby replied. “Silla and I talked it over afore ever I left home. Quill’s right. You don’t know what may be between here and Rivendell. We can help.”

“No. The risks are too great, especially if Quillwort is right about the way ahead.” He looked at the two odd figures sitting by the fire. No warriors they. Best to keep them as far from harm as possible, if that was possible anywhere in this dreadful time.

“Besides, I will travel faster alone.” Boromir felt an unexpected sadness as he spoke the words.

“That you won’t,” said Morby. “Do you know the way? How much food can you carry? Do you have fishing gear?”

“And you’d travel faster by boat. If you had a boat, that is,” said Quill in a conversational tone, knocking out his pipe on a convenient rock.

“You have a boat?”

“I do,” replied Quill, looking pointedly out into the marshes instead of at him.

“Would you lend it to me?” Boromir asked, holding his temper in check.

“Don’t think so,” said Quill, his eyes sliding to meet Morby’s. “Chances are I’d never get it back. You don’t know the Loudwater. If you go alone, you’ll likely lose it in the first rapids.”

“Like your horse," Morby said innocently, joining Quillwort in his careful study of the darkening horizon. Then he looked at Boromir. “Quill’s always been right attached to that boat.”

He couldn't take these two with him into who knew what dangers. He was used to sending men to what might be their deaths, but he never did it needlessly. “I won’t risk your lives.”

Morby got up, walked over to Boromir, and put a hand on his arm. “It’s our fight as much as yours.”

“Morby…,” he began, almost pleading, then stopped. He lifted a hand to cover the small, wrinkled brown one resting on his other gauntlet.

Quillwort stood up. “Morby’s right,” he said. “We’re going. Even if you try to leave without us, we’ll follow you in the boat. Now, there’s room in the house for all of us. It’s not a palace, like you’re used to. No doubt you’ll sleep hard, or not sleep at all. And those eels will come back to haunt you in the night, I shouldn’t wonder. Still, we’d better try and get what sleep we can.”

Boromir nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Morby and Quill walked toward the house together. Boromir heard the marshman saying, “Never did fancy being eaten by wolves, but to tell you the truth I wouldn’t mind seeing a troll.”

“Or a giant,” said Morby. “That would be something, that would.”

Boromir found himself smiling, in spite of all his misgivings. He hoped he was doing the right thing by letting them come. He stood for long moments with his eyes closed, listening to the peaceful sounds of the marsh. He sighed once, then went into the house.

~~~~~

Author’s note: Quillwort and his eel stew are small tributes to another of the Inklings. Quill is a sort of first-cousin to my favorite among Lewis’ characters. As with Tolkien, Lewis' characters belong to him and his estate; I'm just having a bit of fun with one of them.


	6. Up the Loudwater: in which Boromir Gives Morby a Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

They set out at first light, after loading the boat with what supplies they could gather: pipeweed, a small black bottle of brandy, smoked eels and fish, Silla’s dried apples and a bag of dried, rust-colored fruits about the size of a plum. Quill called them perras-fruit, pointing to a stand of gnarled, scrubby trees off to the right. There was not much wood to be had in the marshes, but they took a tightly bound bunch of the branches Quill gathered to use for cooking and brandy-making.

When the marshman added a bow and quiver of arrows to the boat, Boromir raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I hunt a bit, marsh-duck mostly. They make a change from eels,” said Quill in his usual flat tone.

“Well, we’re not as defenseless as I feared.” Boromir heard himself falling into the voice he often used to put heart into green troops facing unknown dangers.

Quill wasn’t having any. He grunted, then said, “I doubt it’ll be much use against trolls. Or wolves.”

Exasperated, Boromir said, “Well, at least I will be grateful for some fowl along the way. I’ve had none since I passed through Rohan.”

The boat was a sturdy little craft with low sides, suited for navigating the marsh-channels. It made a tight fit for the three of them and the supplies. Boromir held his breath as Quill eased himself into the front of the boat, but she held well above the water-line. Sitting in the stern, Boromir pushed them away from the bank. He and the marshman paddled north against the current. Morby sat in the middle on the bunch of kindling, cushioned by Boromir’s cloak.

Quillwort had warned them that it was a five or six day journey up to where the river forked at the Angle. They stroked steadily through the day, stopping only to switch places from time to time so that the one not paddling could take some food and rest.

The country on either side of the river was flat marshland as far as the eye could see. Boromir felt increasingly exposed. There was little cover and no place from which to mount a defense if they were attacked. On the other hand, if danger threatened they would see it coming, at least if it came in daylight. They stopped only when dusk was falling, before it was too dark to make camp.

They tied up the boat to a sturdy-looking bush by the river’s edge and found a patch of slightly elevated ground dry enough to lay out their bed-rolls. It was well past the middle of September, and the night turned cool quickly. Using half their small supply of wood, they built a fire.

Sitting on the ground, they ate smoked fish and sweet perras-fruit. Boromir and Morby sat crossed-legged, but Quill sat with his webbed feet planted to the sides of his torso, his knees sticking up past the top of his conical hat. Boromir thought he looked like nothing so much as a serious frog. A thin frog smoking a pipe, but a frog nonetheless.

“We need a song,” Morby said suddenly. “Do you sing, Master Boromir?”

“Not according to my brother. He says my voice is good for giving orders, but he prays me let him do the singing. He has our mother’s voice. I remember her singing songs of the sea, of the elves, songs of home.” He looked down for a moment, then lifted his eyes and smiled. “I know only soldiers’ songs.”

“Well sing one then. There’s no-one but us to hear you.”

“And we’re not likely to live to make report of it,” Quillwort added, “so sing on.”

Boromir laughed, as he half-suspected Quill intended. Softly, he began an old marching song. His voice was rough, it was true, but it was as warm as the fire that flickered in front of them. It also stayed, more or less, on key. The tune was simple, but the words were of Gondor, brotherhood, death and glory.

“It has many other verses,” said Boromir after he had sung several. “Soldiers tend to make them up as they march or as they sit beside the fire as we are doing now. Some of the verses are less… serious.”

“Tomorrow night you can sing us some of those, but that deserves a drink.” Quill drew the brandy bottle out of his pack and passed it to Boromir.

“We should save the brandy. We may have greater need of it later. One of us could fall sick or be wounded.”

“We’re not likely…,” Quillwort began.

“…'to live long enough to need it',” Boromir finished for him. “I know, Quill, I know.” He reached for the bottle.

~~~

 

The next several days followed the pattern of the first. They rowed steadily up the Greyflood, wide and calm as it flowed through the marshes. Although always alert for danger, Boromir relaxed somewhat as the days went by and no danger presented itself. He even began to enjoy the journey. After they made camp each night, they gathered what wood they could find and usually managed a fire.

As Morby and Quillwort puffed their pipes, Boromir worked his way through the songs he remembered. Surprisingly, Quill also knew many songs, which he was quite willing to sing in a quavery tenor. Although some of the songs were sad and some were funny, he sang them all with the same melancholy expression on his face. Boromir noted with some satisfaction that the marshman’s voice was much worse than his own.

He was also glad to find that Quill was a good shot with his bow. The marshman managed to get a pair of ducks on their third day out. As they sat by the fire that night, with full bellies and grease still on their fingers, Boromir praised his skill and waxed eloquent about the succulence of the ducks.

The ghost of a smile passed over Quill’s face, which turned a somewhat darker greenish-brown with pleasure. His only response, however, was to say that what Boromir called his skill wouldn’t help then much when something bigger than a duck attacked them.

Goaded, Boromir stood up, threw his last duck bone into the fire and turned around to face the marshman. “Quillwort, you are without a doubt the most pessimistic, the most… the most…. You didn’t have to come on this journey if you remember. I simply asked you to draw me a map.”

“Now, then,” said Quill mildly, obviously taking no offense, “you needn’t get testy. Who said I didn’t want to come? Why, the other marshfolk think I’m quite a wanderer. Always did enjoy travel. I just like to be realistic, is all. And what with the trolls and the wolves, and with those dark things Morby saw about, don’t you see….”

Boromir rolled his eyes and abruptly walked away from the fire. Morby, who had known Quill for a long time, just laughed.

~~~

 

As they paddled upriver, they took turns telling stories or simply talking of their lives. Boromir found the histories and doings of the Riverfolk and the Marshmen both interesting and comforting. He was heartened to know of all the threads of life in Middle Earth that had been spun far away from Gondor. Somehow he felt that the tapestry woven from those different threads had to be stronger than all the fires that burned in Mordor and threated to consume it.

Six days after they left Quill’s home, they came to the Angle. The river forked on either side of a narrow neck of land that rapidly broadened and rose slightly toward the northern horizon.

“Over there to the left's the Hoarwell. To the right's the Loudwater. From all I’ve heard, I'd say the elves are more likely up the Loudwater. Don’t know how far.”

“Are you sure?” asked Boromir.

“No, not sure of anything, but I think that’s our best chance of finding it. Just follow the river 'til we come on it, or come on someone who knows of it.”

Boromir simply nodded and, from the stern, guided the boat onto the right fork. There was nothing he could do now except go forward and hope for the best.

The first day on the Loudwater was relatively easy going, but by the middle of the second day the land was rising more sharply and the marshlands had given way to downlands. The river narrowed. Making headway against the swifter current became increasingly arduous. A series of long, sloping ridges came down to meet the water on either side. Their tops were covered with dry-looking grasses, the sides bare and eroded with deep fissures.

Unease plucked at the edged of Boromir’s mind again. The comfortless landscape oppressed him. The cuts and ridges of the downs provided ample opportunity for any enemy or beast to find a hiding place.

When they made camp that night, they were exhausted from trying to make head-way against the swifter current. Finding no trees, or even shrubs, on the barren downs, they had no fire. They ate cold, smoked eel and a few of the dwindling pieces of Silla’s dried apples in silence.

Boromir looked around him as night fell. He couldn’t shake his feeling of exposure. He looked at his two companions, sitting quietly, their eyes drooping. He suddenly undid his belt and removed the long scabbard and knife that rested on one hip.

“Morby,” he said, holding out the knife toward him. “Take this; it is yours. Put it on your belt and keep it there.”

Morby reached for it slowly, seeming somewhat reluctant to take it. He finally pulled the knife out of its finely-tooled leather holder and blinked as it shone in his dark, wrinkled hands. The handle was long and straight, made of dark wood and capped with silver. The blade, also long and straight, was etched with an intricate repeating design of a graceful, spreading tree surrounded by stars.

“Master Boromir, no. This is too fine. Besides which I don’t know how to use a knife like this.”

“And what use would it be against…,” Quill began, then stopped when Boromir shot him a fierce look. The marshman cleared his throat and began to pay close attention to his pipe, which seemed to need refilling.

Leaning forward, Boromir reached out and closed Morby’s hand around the knife’s hilt. “My brother gave me this when I left for my first campaign. If he knew you had saved my life, he would be glad for you to have it. I will teach you how to use it. May it keep you safe as it has kept me.”

Morby looked into Boromir’s eyes, then said, "When this is over and you go back home, Silla and I can look at it and remember you.”

Boromir felt a tightening in his throat. He stood up abruptly.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand to help Morby up, “I will give you your first lesson.”

As the sun sank behind the downs, Boromir began to instruct him on how to use the knife to meet an attack and how to use his small stature against a larger opponent. Boromir admonished him to keep the knife with him at all times, to keep his head and look for vulnerable spots in his enemy, no matter what sort of enemy might come at him.

When they had all settled down for the night, Boromir went to sleep with his hand on the hilt of his unsheathed sword.

~~~

 

When he woke the next morning, his hand was still there. In spite of his forebodings, the night had passed uneventfully. It was now the end of September, and the morning was cold. After a scant breakfast of smoked fish, they were on the river again. The going was hard. The currents became swifter and more treacherous.

“Watch out for rapids,” Quill said. “They don't call it Loudwater for no reason.”

Boromir shared his concern. As he had noticed when they first set out, the boat’s sides were low and she carried a heavy load with the three of them. Although Morby was the best boatman, they could not put him in the back to steer because his lighter weight would not keep the back of the boat steady if they ran into trouble. They had decided that the safest configuration was to put Quillwort in the back to steer and Morby in the front to call out hazards. Boromir sat in the middle tried to shift his weight as best he could to keep them afloat.

As the day wore on and they paddled north, the elevation of the land rose and they could see low hills on the horizon. The river narrowed steadily, its surface increasingly broken by large rocks. The water churned white around them and sometime sprayed over the sides of the boat. Quill shook his head, but said nothing. The time for stories seemed to be over. He and Morby paddled grimly, trying to keep ahead of the current and away from the rocks.

Boromir felt frustrated and uneasy. He could not use his strength to help them. He had little experience in boats and could not trust what skill he had in the currents that seemed to become swifter and more confusing by the minute.

As they rounded a sharp bend, the river in front of them was suddenly white with foaming, churning water from bank to bank. Morby yelled, “Rocks, rocks! Steer left, left!”

Quillwort bent to the right and leaned over the side, sinking his paddle as deeply as he could. He paddled frantically. Boromir clung to the sides, trying to keep his weight from hindering them. The boat shot past a large rock to the right, but plunged dangerously down into swirling white water as it did.

Boromir heard a sickening crunch as the prow hit something under the roiled surface. Reaching forward quickly, he pulled Morby back against him. Water rushed over the prow of the boat. It began to sink.

Morby turned in Boromir’s grip as they sank and yelled over the roar of the rapids, “I can get to shore. Can you swim?” Boromir simply nodded and let him go. Quill had kicked free of the sinking stern and seemed to have something in his hands. The rest of the boat had already gone under. The current pulled them south, and Boromir fell the water drag at his mail and leathers, pulling him down. The thought briefly crossed his mind that the soldiers of Gondor should stay on land.

Taking a deep breath, he groped at his belt to be sure that his sword and the horn were still secure. Struggling to keep his head above the rushing water, he swam as best he could for the closer bank on the left, kicking against rocks where he could get a purchase. As narrow as the river was, it seemed a long way to the bank.


	7. The Downs: in which Boromir Discovers that Quill was Correct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

Boromir struggled up the bank and lay at the top for a moment, his eyes closed. Then, raising himself up on one elbow, he pushed the dripping hair out of his eyes and looked around for the others. Quill and Morby had made it to land before him. Weak with relief, he put his head down in the crook of his arm and took several deep breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart. The three lay for long moments without speaking, soaking wet, cold, and streaked with mud.

“Well, at least I didn’t have to drag you out of the river again.” Morby coughed. “You did better this time, Master Boromir, though I made it out first.”

“Not a fair contest. I’ve no webbing on my fingers.” Boromir sat up and looked at Quill. “Or my feet,” he added. “Did we lose everything?”

“I saved my pack and bow. No arrows, though, and none of the food. Lost my hat, too,” the marshman said.

“That is better than I managed. Quill, I am sorry about your boat. I should never have brought you or Morby with me. You both could have drowned just now.”

“Not your fault.” The marshman’s voice was suddenly brisk. “These things will happen. Look on the bright side, I always say.”

“You never say any such thing,” Boromir protested.

“We’re not dead yet,” Quill continued, as if he had not spoken. He reached for his pack and looked inside. “I’ve got fishing lines and hooks,” He reached inside and rooted around. “A knife and a flint. And the brandy.” He held the bottle out to Boromir.

He did not understand Quill at all. Suspicious and pessimistic when things were going well, the marshman seemed to rally when things actually went badly. Having his predictions of disaster fulfilled seemed to put him on his mettle. Boromir shook his head and reached for the bottle. The warming liquid slid down his throat, and he stopped shivering. He passed the brandy to Morby.

Some scrubby bushes grew on this side of the bank, and they managed to gather enough brush to make a fire and begin to dry out their clothes. Quill even caught a couple of fish. Morby cleaned them, impaled them on stripped branches and set them to cook over the small fire.

After they ate, they settled down on the hard ground to get some sleep. Boromir looked up at the stars for a long time. His share of the fish had done little but take the edge off his hunger, his clothes were still damp and he was cold. But Quillwort was right; they were alive. He wondered if the same could be said of his father and his brother. Perhaps their enemies had already overrun Minas Tirith. Or perhaps Faramir was even now standing at the top of the White Tower, in the spot where they had so often stood together, looking at the same stars.

~~~

 

The next day dawned chill and grey. Boromir woke with a start from a dream he could not quite remember, something about a stone staircase and a dark cloud blotting out the stars. Quill and Morby were standing a little away from him, talking quietly. He stood up slowly, his muscles stiff from the cold and damp, and walked over to join them.

Quill pointed toward the north. “Looks like woods up to the north, maybe two days journey farther on. Probably best if we make for them as soon as we can. More cover and more chance of food there.”

Boromir nodded. “We have to go that way in any case.” They gathered the few things they had and headed north beside the river.

Hungry and cold, they walked in silence all morning. Then Boromir softly started singing the old Gondorrim marching song he had begun teaching Quill and Morby days ago. They were usually strong on the chorus, but less certain on the verses. Morby joined Boromir on each chorus of the swinging, catchy tune.*

_We fight for Gondor, brothers all,_  
Our strength is hers until we fall  
Or 'til the ending of the world.  
Stars and tree now be unfurled. 

Quill just shrugged his pack higher up on his shoulders and continued to walk behind them in silence. As Boromir sang the verses, he thought of the many marches that this song had lightened. He remembered columns of his men, singing in the heat and cold and rain, often before battles in which many had died. Thinking of his present command of two, he marvelled at where this journey had brought him. By the time Boromir sang the seventh or eighth verse, they were moving briskly along and feeling less cold.

_So lift a glass to those we leave._  
If we should fall, then do not grieve.  
We died with honor and with scars,  
Full of nights beneath her stars. 

After he and Morby finished the chorus together, Boromir was surprised to hear Quill’s voice rise behind them in a new verse of his own making.

_The Steward’s son from far off land,_  
Whole armies under his command,  
Left all to seek fair Rivendell  
But lost his horse in Greyflood’s swell.

Boromir stopped and turned. Morby and Quill stopped as well. It was very quiet for a moment, then Boromir’s laughter rang over the downs. The afternoon’s march passed swiftly in spite of their hunger and the chill in the air. Each of them took turns making up verses to tell the story of their time together, taking care, if possible, to insult the other two in the process.

~~~

 

After another cold night by the river, they set off at dawn, hoping to reach the wooded hills they saw ahead before nightfall. They kept up a good pace all day. As the sun waned in the west, the land rose and they could see trees ahead. Quill suddenly stopped and pointed.

“Look there, right at the edge of the woods over to the left.”

Boromir came up to stand beside him and squinted through the dusk. He saw, against all probability, a house.

“By the Valar,” he said, his heart lifting. It was a large, low building of stone and timber. Lights shone from small windows along the front and a drift of white smoke rose from a chimney at its back. It seemed to promise rest and food and warmth. Perhaps its owner could even provide them with some guidance as to the whereabouts of the elves.

“Seems strange to come upon a house in the midst of nowhere, when we’ve seen nothing but birds and fish for days,” Quill said.

“It lies at the edge of the forrest,” Boromir replied. “Perhaps it is near a road. It might mean we are close to a settlement.”

“It might mean any number of things, and some of them aren’t good,” Quill muttered.

“I doubt if any of your trolls or giants live there. It would be foolish not to try to take shelter for the night if we can.”

“We should be on our guard…,” Quill began.

“I always am.” Boromir’s tone was sharp. Morby said nothing, but he had begun to shiver with the cold. “Come,” Boromir continued, “and stay behind me.”

The reached the house after dark. The small windows across the front of the house cast a faint glow that lighted their way up the last hill. The wind had picked up and rustled through the trees behind the house. As they approached the massive wooden door, Boromir noticed that the windows were set high. He could not see inside and could hear nothing from inside, either. Putting one hand on the hilt of his sword, he knocked on the door with the other.

 

Almost immediately, the door swung open. On the other side stood a stocky man with dark, matted hair, a full black beard and furrowed skin. He wore plain garments of rough, grey cloth and black leather boots. He scowled out at them with narrowed, dark eyes. Boromir thought for a moment that the man would challenge them. Instead, he made an awkward bow, opened the door wider, and stepped back.

“Welcome, travelers.” His voice, halting and raspy, was a rough as his appearance. “The Lady Nendaeril bids you welcome to her house.”

Boromir made no move to enter. He was uneasy that the man, or the house, seemed to have been waiting for them.

“Who is this lady and what place is this?” A cold wind gusted behind him, blowing his cloak around his legs and his hair forward into his face. A few yellow leaves blew past him and through the open doorway.

The man did not meet Boromir’s eyes. “The house is Tellumorn. My lady Nendaeril is the last of an ancient line. Come with me.”

Boromir still hesitated. Through the open doorway, he could see a hall lit by torches and warmed by rich tapestries. In the room beyond, he glimpsed a fire. Behind him, dark, cold and two tired companions. Something in the servant’s appearance or tone of voice bothered him. Something…. Suddenly, Morby sneezed.

Boromir searched the servant’s closed, swarthy face once more. Then he took his hand off his sword hilt, turned around and put it on Morby’s shoulder.

“Come, I see a fire inside. We will meet this lady and ask her hospitality for the night.”

Quill came up to stand beside him and spoke in a low voice. “I don’t like the looks of this place. No, nor of that sour-faced one there, neither. Let’s go on.”

“It is getting colder and we are all hungry. It is too dark to make camp now. We need to regroup. Do not worry, we will take care.”

“Take us to your mistress, then,” Boromir said, turning and crossing the threshold. His hand went back to the hilt of his sword, seeming to rest there casually. Morby and Quill trailed behind him.

 

The servant led them through the hall and into the room with the fire. It was a beautiful space, with smooth stone floors and a high, open ceiling beamed with large timbers. Boromir caught sight of shelves of books, a long table with musical instruments and other objects glinting in candle-flame, and tapestries filled with dim, fantastic shapes on the walls. To the right of the stone fireplace was a large, ornately carved chair of dark wood. As they entered, the woman who had been sitting in the chair rose.

Nendaeril was tall, with a pale, grave face. She was much younger than Boromir had expected. Black hair fell almost to her waist and lost itself in the black of her dress. Her eyes were dark also and the skin beneath them looked bruised with some deep sorrow.

Boromir wanted to reach out his hand to touch that sad face, to run his thumbs gently over the shadows beneath her eyes, to comfort her. A bright finger of desire traced its way down his spine, sudden and unbidden. He stood up straighter and willed the feeling away. He had no time for any desire other the safety of his companions and of Gondor. Boromir took his hand off his sword, put it up to his chest in greeting, and bowed.

“Welcome.” Her voice was low and musical. It reminded him of Finduilas’ voice. Her gaze, almost palpable, softly touched his forehead, then followed the line of his hair down his neck as his mother’s hands had often done, long ago, soothing him when he was in a fever or when he could not sleep. Involuntarily, his chin went up. He stepped back, shaken and confused.

“My lady, we three travelers have come far and seek shelter this night. I am Boromir of Gondor. My friends are called Morby and Quillwort.”

Nendaeril’s eyes never left Boromir’s face. She stepped forward and held out her hand. He took it in both his own and looked down. It was white, delicate and long-fingered. On her middle finger thin bands of gold were twisted into a ring in the shape of some beast or bird he could not quite make out. A ruby caught in the bands glinted up at him, reflecting the light from the fire. His own hands seemed large and none too clean, the nails broken and dirty, the fingers marked with scars. He blushed and released her hand.

“I am happy to grant you the hospitality of my house, Boromir of Gondor, and your companions also. It is the only one for many long miles near the Great East-West Road. It lies a little way to the north. Tellumorn has ever welcomed travelers.”

Morby sneezed again, and Quill murmured something unintelligible. The lady finally turned her eyes toward them. Stepping gracefully to the table, she rang a small bell, a beautiful thing of etched metal. The same servant re-entered the room.

“Take these two guests to the kitchen. Prepare food for them, and make up some spiced wine. They are tired and chilled. Then take them to the south room.”

She turned again to Quill and Morby. “Gerod will be sure you are comfortable. Sleep well.” Then her eyes went back to Boromir.

Morby put his hand on Boromir’s arm. “Master Boromir….”

“I will come find you later,” Boromir interrupted him gently. “Eat something and drink that wine. Keep Quill out of trouble.”

Quill grunted, and he and Morby slowly followed the lady's servant out of the room.

Nendaeril turned back to the table, lifted a dark glass decanter that rested there and poured something into a two silver goblets. “Wine from the South,” she said, coming back to where Boromir stood and holding one of the goblets out to him.

What was it about this quite lovely woman that made him reluctant to take his hand off his sword-hilt, much less reach out to take the wine from her? She smiled at him for the first time. “Your companions are being attended. Put aside your care and your shield for a few moments, at least. You must be weary from your journey.” Her voice was warm and soothing.

He was, indeed, weary; weary of sleeping on the cold ground, of dirt and hunger and anxiety. He battled each night with fearful dreams in which all he loved went down into a darkness that would never end. Despair awakened him too early in the chill hours before each dawn, robbing him of sleep and confidence. He sighed and bent down to lean his shield against the chair that stood beside the fireplace. He took his hand off his sword and reached out to take the cup from her beautiful, pale hand.

Nendaeril lifted her own cup and drank from it. When she lowered it, there was wine, deep red, staining her lips. It glistened almost like blood against the snowy skin of her face. Very slowly, the tip of her tongue traced its way around her lovely mouth.

Boromir felt a deep shock of desire. He wanted this woman, wanted.... He looked down in confusion and drank deeply from the cup, hoping that the wine would steady him. Instead, the heat of it joined with the heat of lust and set the blood in his veins alight. He felt suddenly more alive, cold and care burned from him. He looked at Nendaeril and smiled. The flames from the fireplace glinted in her eyes as she took a step towards him.

Take care, he thought, take care. He looked down into the cup, away from the dark eyes that burned him, and shook his head, whether to clear it or to deny the desires that filled it he knew not. The wine was rich and sweet, but there was something else. A taste of earth, of decay, under the sweetness. The wine seemed too thick and too warm.

He clenched his hands hard around the metal of the goblet to steady them, then looked up. “I am sorry, my lady. I must leave you now and see to my friends. We must make an early start.” His words sounded heavy and slow to his own ears.

She did not answer him, but reached out a hand to touch his face. He stepped back to avoid the touch, but he moved too slowly. Heat and heaviness swept over him in another wave. The darkness of her eyes engulfed him, and he felt himself falling. The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was the ring of his silver goblet hitting the stone floor.

~~~

 

Was he awake or dreaming? His eyes seemed to be open, but a heavy darkness covered everything. Where was he? He could see no stars. Instead of the cold ground to which he had become accustomed, he was enveloped in softness and heat. Then he remembered. The house, the woman. He struggled to sit up, but his body refused to respond. He could turn his head, but his arms and legs refused to obey his commands. A terrible lassitude filled him. She must have drugged the wine. Curse the witch, Boromir thought.

As if in respond, a low laugh sounded beside him. He turned his head and encountered a coverlet of some sort. He felt her move closer to him in what must be a bed. Her hand touched his face, and he jerked away as best he could. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw her face above him. Her dark hair brushed his bare chest as she bent to kiss it, her lips trailed licks of flame across it and up his neck. She twined her hands in the hair at both his temples and held his head. As she leaned down to possess his mouth, he gathered what strength he had to raise his head slightly and spit in her face.

Her eyes blazed down at him. “You are a fool, son of Denethor. Men have died willingly for the pleasure I can give. You will die in any case, but you could have had the pleasure first.”

“I do not take pleasure with monsters, I thank you, my lady.” Boromir’s voice cut through the dark with a sharp edge of scorn. He would rather he had his sword to do the cutting.

“No?” She laughed again, and Boromir went cold with the sound. “Perhaps I will prove to you wrong,” the low voice continued. “I can make you beg for my touch before your end.” Her hands trailed down his chest and onto his thighs. Her lips, hot and wet, followed them. Boromir shuddered, but not from desire. He clenched his fists to keep from crying out in revulsion. His fists, he thought wildly, he was getting back some control. He lay very still. Just a few more moments, he thought.

“Perhaps you will prove me wrong,” he said weakly, trying keep her talking, trying to buy time. “But must I die? I have done you no harm and intend none. I might even bring you pleasure as well as receive it if you will but wait.” He tried to drain the revulsion from his voice so that she might believe him.

She lifted her head and laughed softly. “I will take my pleasure in my own way, never fear. But why must you die?” She seemed to consider it as one hand busied itself lightly stroking the inside of his thigh.

“There is no reason not to tell you, since you will not live to see the day. I serve Sauron. I am bound to him and his purposes, a spy, if you like. Word reached him that you had left Gondor, he knew not why. We thought it possible that you would seek help from the elves. His servants have been watching for you ever since. And you found my house. Delicious, is it not? Sauron desires your death. I am happy to oblige him.”

Boromir could not test his legs, since she was draped over them, but he cautiously flexed his arms, still weak but responsive.

“Now I will show you how I take my pleasure.” Bestowing one last lingering kiss on his belly, she slid up the length of his body and twined her hands in his hair again. Boromir could not bear for her lips to touch his, so he quickly turned his head.

“Yes,” she said, the word a sibilant hiss. She bent to his exposed neck, and he felt a terrible pain, more like daggers than teeth as she bit him. She pressed closer and he felt her suck at his neck. A new wave of weakness and revulsion hit him. He gave an inarticulate cry of horror and tried to lift his arms to push her away.

Seemingly in response to his cry, he heard shouts and a scuffle in the hall. The door crashed open and a shaft of light from the torches in the hallway blinded him for a moment.

He struggled with Nendaeril, astonished at her strength. She screamed and cursed as he found the strength to wind his hands in her long hair and pull her head back, away from his neck. She writhed like a snake, fingernails clawing at his chest and arms. He slid to the edge of the bed, still holding her head back away from him with one hand. He used the other to capture her flailing hands.

When he tried to stand up, his legs failed him. He fell heavily on top of her. She screamed again, then tried to tear at his neck with her fangs. He managed to hold her down and away from him. As his eyes adjusted to the light from the hall, he saw in horror that her face had been transformed into something out of nightmare. Long fangs filled her open mouth, her face was furrowed and contorted, and his blood smeared her mouth and chin.

Across the room, the commotion continued: thuds, feet sliding on the stone floor and inarticulate cries. Why had not her servants come to her aid and killed him while he was still weak?

“Master Boromir, are you all right?” came Morby’s voice. Then another thud and a crash as a large iron candlestand fell to the stone floor.

Boromir was so astonished that he loosened his hold on the writhing Nendaeril for a moment. She raked her nails across the side of his face. Boromir banged her head forcibly against the stone floor, then dragged her up with him so that he could look over the edge of the high bed. On the other side he saw Morby, Quill and three dark men engaged in mortal combat.

The lady’s servants were armed with knives. Morby had his own knife out and seemed to be using it to good effect to keep one of the men at bay. Quill had Boromir’s sword and his own bow. He was swinging the sword wildly, but inexpertly, with his left hand while at the same time using his bow as a kind of quarterstaff with his right to keep the other two men away from the bed. How they had gotten this far, Boromir was not able to imagine. One of the men turned away from Quill and headed toward Morby.

Boromir stood up, hauling Nendaeril up with him. He flung her unceremoniously into a corner, then lunged unsteadily toward the man moving toward Morby and managed to tackle him. The servant lifted his knife, but Boromir grabbed his wrist and beat it repeatedly against the floor until he let it go. He seized the curved knife and plunged it into the man’s chest. He cried out once and died. Boromir looked up, and Quill slid his sword across the floor toward him.

Quill turned his full attention toward his own assailant, lashing his bow hard across the man’s face. The man roared and swiped his knife toward Quill, but couldn’t manage to get within striking distance without encountering jabs and prods from the bow.

Since Quillwort seemed to have the man well in hand, Boromir hefted his sword gratefully and, his legs steadier now, strode toward Morby and the other man. He noted that Morby was using all his lessons for keeping a larger opponent off-balance, but the man’s strength would soon overcome him. With one satisfying blow, Boromir parted the man’s head from his body. Since Morby was well below the chest level, it was the safest way of dispatching him without taking the risk of wounding his friend as well.

 

Morby smiled at him and opened his mouth to speak. Just then, they heard a cry from the other side of the room. Turning, they saw that Quill had managed to knock his man unconscious with an apparently well-aimed strike with his bow. In the meantime, however, Nendaeril had recovered and come upon the marshman from behind. Boromir and Morby looked on, horror-stricken, as she sank her teeth into his neck.

They both lifted their weapons and ran toward Quill. Before they could reach him, Nendaeril gave a terrible shriek. She drew back from the marshman, his greenish-brown blood on her lips and fangs. Her eyes wide, she screamed again and again. Then her body began to change. It shrank. Her skin grew black and leathery, and her hands receded and turned into talons. Nendaeril changed before their eyes from a woman into something truly monstrous, keening and shrieking all the while. Before the transformation was complete, she died.

Boromir looked away from the thing on the floor, his gorge rising. Morby closed his eyes and shook, the knife dropping unheaded from his hand. Quill prodded the body with the end of his bow and said, “Seems marsh blood didn’t agree with the lady.”

~~~

 

Later, having found his clothes and shield and cleaned his sword, Boromir sat with Quill and Morby in the kitchens. They were drinking tea that Morby had managed to find and brew up. Boromir would have preferred something stronger, but he was afraid to drink any more of Nendaeril’s wine. The one servant left alive was neatly gagged and bound in a corner by the kitchen fireplace.

“How in the name of Eru did you two manage to find me? How did you get away from her servants?” Boromir was still surprised that they weren’t all of them dead. The resourcefulness and skill of his small company astonished him.

“Well, Quill wouldn’t let me drink any of the wine. Didn’t trust the lady or her servants.”

“Rightly so, as it turned out.” Boromir lifted his tea-cup in salute toward Quill. Quill blushed greenly.

“Anyhow, we pretended to drink it and went to the beds they gave us,” Morby said. “They probably assumed that we were drugged as well and could cause them no trouble. After a while, we got up and tried to find you.”

“We saw them take you into that room,” Quill continued the tale. “We didn’t know if you were dead or just drugged. We hid behind a tapestry in an alcove in the hall. We didn’t figure we could do anything until you woke up. If you were going to wake up, that is. We didn’t think as how the two of us could beat the four of them.”

“So we waited,” said Morby, “for hours. We began to think that you were dead.”

“You should have left while you could,” said Boromir.

They looked at him. Boromir looked down at the table. “I am sorry,” he said, “I do not doubt your courage. But this is too dangerous.” He looked up. “Quill was right, after all. There are dark things here, very dark. Although, in fairness, you just said trolls and wolves. Nothing about vampires, if you remember.”

“We wouldn’t leave you anymore than you would leave one of us,” said Morby. “More tea?”

Boromir nodded.

“Anyhow,” Quill continued, “late in the night, we heard you cry out. But they heard you, too, the servants. Just as we came out into the hall, so did they. We were able to hold them off, and Morby got the door open. At first we couldn’t see you, but we could hear you were alive and fighting, too. So, all’s well that ends well, as I always say.”

“You never say any such thing,” Boromir smiled. Then he said soberly, “I have never been prouder of soldiers in my life. You fought bravely and well. I am in your debt, and I thank you.”

Quill blushed green again and Morby said, “You taught me, Master Boromir. I was only doing what you said.”

“What about him?” Quill jerked his head toward the now-conscious servant.

“Time for some answers,” Boromir said. He turned toward the man, whose swarthy skin turned pale at the look in his eyes.

 

The servants were Dunlendings, it turned out, recruited for Sauron’s service with gold and promises of revenge against the Gondorrim whom they hated. Nendaeril was indeed a vampire, a descendent of the line of Thuringwethil. Boromir remembered her story well. Faramir told it to him one night when they were boys. They had been camped alone by the Anduin. Boromir was usually impatient with Faramir’s tales of elves and ents, preferring stories of battle. He dared Faramir to tell a tale that would frighten him. Faramir managed it with the story of Thuringwethil, the woman of secret shadow, a servant of Sauron in the First Age.

According to Faramir’s story, she disappeared when Sauron’s power was broken. Boromir had assumed that such monsters left Middle Earth long ago. He had apparently been wrong. He had scoffed at Quill’s predictions of trolls and werewolves; but with Sauron’s power growing again, the time of legends had returned.

The Dunlending told them further that Nendaeril had sent a servant to inform Sauron of their whereabouts. The quest grew ever more dangerous. Boromir now knew better than to try to persuade his two companions to turn back and let him pursue it alone. Touched by their loyalty and humbled by their courage, he still feared for them.

They let the servant go, not wishing to kill the man in cold blood. Boromir assumed that the damage of reporting his whereabouts and likely purpose to Sauron had already been done. Taking food and other supplies that they thought might prove useful, they walked out into the cold sun and gladly left Tellumorn behind them.

~~~~~

* May be sung to the tune of “Over the Hills and Far Away.”


	8. Wasteland: In which Boromir Falls under a Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

They walked north, through the wood that stretched out behind the house as far as they could see. Bright sun shone on trees turned ravishing shades of burgundy and gold by the early October frost. Boromir took deep breaths of clean air as he walked and tried to forget the horror they left behind. None of them said much.

About noon, they stopped for a brief standing meal of bread and cheese. Not long after that, they came to a road cutting its way through the wood.

“Do you think it really is the Great East-West Road, or do you think she was lying about even that?” Morby asked, as they stopped and stood on the road looking around them.

Boromir shrugged off the pack he taken from the storerooms at Tellumorn, now heavy with supplies, and set it by the side of the road. He lifted one hand up to rub a knotted muscle in his neck. “It seems to run east to west, and it looks well-traveled enough. But will it take us to Imladris?” He turned to Quill, standing to his left. “Do any of your tales say that this road will take us there?” Quill shrugged. “No, but some of the stories do say that it lies at the source of the Loudwater. We have to go west anyway. Might as well take the road for a bit. Likely it will cross the river at some point.”

Boromir reached down for the pack and settled it on his shoulders once more. “To the elves, then,” he said, hoping that he sounded more optimistic than he felt at the moment. Since their encounter with Nendaeril, the way seemed even more fraught with peril. He thought of the dark horsemen who had so nearly crossed his path at the Greyflood. If they were allied with Sauron, they might now know where he and his companions were and could no doubt have guessed where they were headed.

Morby and Quill, behind him, were quiet. They had probably come to the same conclusion. Boromir hitched his pack into a more comfortable position and started singing, the one about the three sergeants and the one cask of ale.

~~~

 

The hills rose around them as they walked. The road clung to the feet of the hills, winding among woods or, occasionally, through slopes covered with heather. Sometimes they could hear the river, but they did not see it again for days. They made camp well away from the road, with an unspoken understanding that it was best to stay under cover at night.

At the end of the third day on the road, Boromir borrowed Quill’s bow and some of the arrows acquired as spoils from Nendaeril’s house and went hunting. Their supplies of food were getting low again, and the weather was getting colder. They needed meat. He told Quill and Morby to build a fire, then set off into the slanting sunlight of late afternoon to try his luck.

Boromir’s boots crunched through the fallen leaves as he moved away from camp. The feel of a bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows on his back brought back happy memories. He felt the clutch of fear and responsibility on his heart ease a bit. It was a beautiful day. Other autumn days, good days long past, whispered to him. How often had he and Faramir gone hunting in Ithilien, as boys and men?

It was one of their escapes from the vortex of tension that Denethor created around the three of them, especially after their mother died. Made of expectations and demands, of pride and disappointment, something else swirled through it: a darkness that Boromir never fully understood. So they would go hunting, to Faramir’s beloved Ithilien, leaving Denethor and his demands behind them.

Faramir was always the better tracker, even as a child, and better with a bow as soon as he had strength enough to pull one back. Boromir had delighted in Faramir’s ill-concealed pride at being better than his elder brother at something.

Denethor never concealed his disappointment in his younger son, and Boromir could never fathom it. Faramir was more like their father. He had Denethor’s subtle wit and noble bearing. Perhaps the Steward loved his elder son simply because he was the elder, or perhaps because they were unlike. Denethor seemed to revel in Boromir’s strength and bravery, in his easy laughter, in his ability to inspire love in those around him, especially in the hearts of his soldiers.

Something moved in the underbrush. Boromir’s mind left the past, reluctantly. He silently drew an arrow from the quiver and set it to the string. Holding the bow and arrow loosely, he moved forward toward a clearing that he could see just up ahead. Boromir stopped at the edge of the trees and scanned the open space. There, grazing peacefully, was a small group of deer: a buck, a doe and two half-grown fawns. He swiftly brought the bow up and drew back the string. Then he hesitated. That was Faramir’s problem as a hunter. He was a deadly shot with the bow, but he hated to kill. Boromir’s lips tightened, and he hesitated a moment longer, the string tense beside his ear. Then he let fly.

~~~

 

They feasted on venison that night, then cut most of the rest of the meat into portions. Boromir wrapped it in one of the two linen shirts he had taken from Nendaeril’s servants. This was not the use he intended for the shirt, Boromir thought wryly as he rolled the bloody portions into a neat package and tied it with a length of rope. He was concerned about the carcase, since they did not have the tools necessary to bury it. He hauled the carcass well away from the camp, hoping that any predators that might find it would be content with it and not search out their camp.

They banked down the fire, spread out the blankets they had taken from the beds in Morby and Quill’s room at Tellumorn and settled down to sleep. After a time, Boromir heard Morby’s voice. “I wonder what Silla’s doing now.” He sounded subdued.

“I know you miss her, Morby. So do I if it comes to that.”

“Do you think she’s all right, Master Boromir?”

“I am sure she is. Your friends are watching out for her.”

“But what about them riders?”

Quill’s voice came out of the darkness on the other side of the fire. “They’re on our trail, like as not, so Silla’s safe as houses. Besides, she’s more than a match for most things.”

“That’s true,” Morby replied, “Did I tell you about the time the snake got into her pantry? It was in autumn, about this time….”

Somewhere in the middle of the tale, Boromir drifted off to sleep.

 

He woke, with a start, to the sound of snarling and yelping off in the trees. He sat up, reaching for the sword that lay beside him. The snarling stopped, and for several moments it was very quiet. Some animals fighting over what was left of the deer, probably. Then he heard something moving through the trees towards them. Morby and Quill were still asleep.

He stood up slowly, drawing his sword out of its scabbard as he stood. The fire had died down to a few glowing embers. Then he saw them. In the trees on the other side of the fire, he could make out several large, furry bodies. Their coats were dark. Yellow eyes glinted in the moonlight. The animal standing in the front bared its teeth and snarled as Boromir stood. Wolves.

“Morby, Quill.” He spoke quietly, hoping he could wake them before the wolves attacked. They began to stir.

“Be quiet and move slowly,” Boromir continued, holding very still. The moon was full, but dark clouds were moving across it. He narrowed his eyes, trying to count the dark shapes among the trees. “Get out your weapons. Stand up slowly. Wolves. Six or seven. Make ready.”

Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw Quill begin to stand, his bow held close against his body. The pack leader looked from Boromir to Quill and snarled again. Suddenly it lunged. The others followed, bursting out of the trees.

Boromir yelled, swinging his sword in a mighty arc. The animal flattened itself to the ground, avoiding the blade and snapping at his legs. Dancing gracefully back, he held the wolf at bay with the point of the blade while he looked around him. Morby was brandishing his long knife. Two large, dark bodies circled cautiously around him, looking for an opening.

Quill managed to fit an arrow to his string and loosed it just as one of the wolves ran toward him. It fell with a terrible howl, then lay still. Before he could get another arrow out of his quiver, another dark shape hurtled into him, knocking him to his knees. He was trying to hold the animal off, using the bow as a staff.

Boromir caught a glimpse of a wolf circling behind him. With another shout, he swung his sword around in a circle, this time connecting. The animal yelped and drew back into the trees, wounded but not dead. The pack leader snarled and lunged at Boromir’s left arm. Its teeth connected only with a thick leather gauntlet. Boromir brought his sword around to spit the wolf in its exposed belly. He quickly drew his weapon out and turned to the others.

Morby still seemed unhurt, but now three wolves circled him. He waved his knife bravely, yelling threats and curses, but the circles were becoming smaller and smaller. Quill fell, struggling with his bare hands against the wolf on top of him. Just as Boromir started toward Quill, he saw Morby go down in a heap of snarling fur.

Boromir launched himself onto the writhing mass, slashing with the edge of his blade. He dared not us the point for fear of spitting Morby in the process. One of the animals howled as blood spurted from its back. It twisted around and snapped. Teeth tore into fabric and flesh above Boromir’s left elbow. He turned, dragging the wolf, still clinging to his arm, then gutted it with the point of his sword.

Flinging it aside, he swung back to the two wolves still on top of an ominously still Morby. He killed one before they realized he was behind them. The other turned and lunged upward for his throat. Boromir got an unnerving glimpse of yellow eyes and red-stained teeth, then he feinted to the left. Blocking with his injured arm and shoulder, he deflected the animal’s attack. Before the wolf could recover itself to leap again, Boromir brought his sword down swiftly with his other arm and cut through its spine.

The sweat running in his eyes blinded him for a moment. When he tried to blot it on the tunic that covered his upper arm, he encountered blood and mangled flesh. He impatiently wiped his face with what relatively dry fabric he could find.

When he looked up, he saw Morby, pale and unmoving, on the ground in front of him. Behind him, he heard snarls and cries. Turning, he saw Quill still struggling under the last wolf, greenish blood glistening on his arms. Boromir ran to him, thrust his blade through the black body up to the hilt, and used the sword to lift the wolf off the marshman.

“Quill.” He knelt down beside him.

“I’m all right,” Quill gasped, “just scratches. Morby?” Quill’s voice was weak, but he tried to sit up using one arm. The other seemed useless.

“Lie still,” Boromir said, “I’ll see.”

Rising to his feet, dizzy with adrenaline and the pain in his arm, Boromir hurried back to the other side of their camp where Morby lay.

“No,” he said, dropping to his knees beside the small figure. His eyes were closed. There was blood on his neck, his coat and shirt in shreds. There was blood everywhere. He did not move.

“No,” whispered Boromir again, his hands hovering over the little riverman, not knowing where to touch him. Then he took one of Morby’s small hands in both of his.

“Morby.”

So still, too still. More urgently, “Morby.”

An almost imperceptible movement of his eyelids, then his eyes opened. Boromir sat back on his heels, weak with relief.

“Master Boromir. Are you all right? Quill?” Morby’s voice was so weak that Boromir had to bend down again to hear it.

“We’re alive, all of us,” Boromir said. Morby nodded, a small smile on his face. His eyes fluttered closed again, but he was still breathing. Boromir closed his own eyes for a moment, wishing not to see the blood, the wounds, the dead bodies of the wolves. Wishing to be anywhere but here. A soldier, he said to himself. Think of him as a soldier. You’ve tended to wounded soldiers a hundred times.

When he opened his eyes, Quill was standing beside him, blood streaming down both his arms.

“Is he…?”

“No, he’s alive.”

Boromir stood up, stripping off his leather surcoat. He looked at Quill, who was a sickly yellow-green color. He swayed as he tried to keep upright.

“Quill, lie down.”

“No, Master Boromir. What can I do?”

Boromir looked at his set face for a moment. “Build up the fire and heat some water.”

As Quill went back toward the banked-down fire, Boromir undid his belt, let it fall to the ground, and stripped off his silk tunic. He grasped the neck of the linen shirt he wore underneath with both hands and ripped it apart from neck to hem. It had belonged to one of the Dunlendings, and it was rough, but it was cleaner than his tunic and more absorbent. As the fire flared up again under Quill’s ministrations, Boromir tore the linen into strips.

 

The worst of Morby’s wounds were two long rips in the abdomen. Boromir didn’t have the means to stitch them closed. He washed them gingerly, bound Morby’s torso as tightly as he could with the strips of cloth, and hoped for the best.

Blood still flowed from numerous bites and gashes on the riverman’s arms. Boromir took Morby’s knife and thrust it in the fire. He would have to cauterize the wounds.

As he lifted the blade from the coals, Boromir saw that the mithril inlays of the Tree of Gondor stood out white-hot against the red of the steel. The thought crossed his mind that Morby would carry the mark of the white tree until the end of his days. Fortunately, the riverman had fainted earlier as Boromir lifted him to bind the bandages around him. He moaned softly when the knife seared his flesh, but was not fully conscious.

The same could not be said for Boromir and Quill, who had to perform the same operation on each other’s wounds. They had nothing left to stop the bleeding otherwise and could not risk infection. They finished off the brandy first.

As Boromir came toward Quill, the hot knife held in a gloved hand, he scooped up his belt from where it lay on the ground and held it out.

“Here, bite down on the leather.”

Quill braced himself against a tree trunk and did as he was told. Boromir had to give him credit. He broke out in a sweat and turned very pale, but his eyes were locked on Boromir’s throughout the process. He didn’t faint.

While he recovered, Boromir went to thrust the blade into the fire for the third time. He had only one long, ragged tear down his upper arm, but it was deep. Soon he would bear the white tree on his flesh as well, as he always bore it in his heart. They would all share the mark of Gondor.

 

They were a sorry lot, Boromir thought much later as he watched the dawn come. He was propped up, exhausted, against a tree at the edge of the little clearing. He and Quill had tended Morby’s wounds as best they could, but the damage was almost beyond their limited skills to mend.

Now he sat, watching Morby’s face for any sign of change. He was still unconscious, which was perhaps just as well, but his breathing seemed even. Boromir reached over and put a hand on his forehead. The skin felt cold and clammy.

Boromir heaved himself to his feet, went over to his pack, and got out his cloak. He came back and drew it over the still form, letting his hands rest lightly on Morby’s shoulders.

“You will be all right,” he said softly, not knowing whether Morby could hear him or not. “I promised Silla….”

He stopped. He had promised Silla that he would let no harm come to Morby, but he had failed.

“He’s a tough one. He’ll come about.” Boromir looked up to see Quill standing beside him, his face the sickly yellow that seemed to pass for paleness among the marshmen. He still looked unsteady on his long legs.

“Go sit down, Quill. I will call you if he wakes.”

~~~

 

As it turned out, several days passed before Morby was truly awake, days of fever and delirium. More than once, they feared that they would lose him. Boromir rigged a frame to go over the fire and smoked what was left of the venison. He also foraged in the area around their camp, finding some berries and small plants to supplement their monotonous diet. Quill ranged far from the camp in a search for healing herbs. They took turns sitting with Morby, talking to him even when they were not sure that he could hear, building up the fire to keep him warm against the October chill.

Quill and Boromir spent hours talking to each other as well. They had little else to do but watch and wait. By the time Morby regained consciousness, they knew each other as well as brothers. Boromir had told Quill things he had never even shared with Faramir. Boromir found himself profoundly at ease, in spite of everything, when he looked at Quill’s shadowed face by the evening fire and the smoke from his pipe that threaded upward to lose itself in the night air. The receptive but non-committal grunts the marshman made around the pipe stem from time to time were all it took to keep Boromir talking, far into the night.

He thought wryly that they were odd friends and confidantes: the Steward’s son and the marshman. Perhaps it was the very oddness of it that set him free, free from responsibilities that his position had always laid on him, free from the web of obligations and family history that had always hindered him from speaking of so many of his sorrows and his hopes.

Even after Morby regained consciousness, several more days passed before Boromir was convinced that he was out of danger. One day, he returned from hunting with a large buck he managed to bring down with a single arrow. As he let it fall from his tired shoulders to the ground with a satisfying thump, Quill crossed over to the edge of the camp to meet him.

“There’s enough meat there for a goodly while,” Quill observed.

“It should last a week or more; long enough for Morby to be ready to travel again, I hope.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Quill said, looking at the carcass instead of Boromir. “I know how worried you are about your home. I know this journey’s taken far longer than you expected. Maybe you should go on alone. Morby’s out of danger now. You can leave us food for a week or so. Then we’ll head home.”

“By yourselves.” Boromir tried to keep his voice calm.

“We’ll manage. We’ll take our time.”

Boromir hesitated. Truly, the delay tormented him. Almost every night now, he woke sweating and shaken from recurring nightmares. In one, a black hand casually toppled the Tower of Ecthelion like a set of children’s blocks. In another, a figure lay in a pool a blood beneath the withered tree in the courtyard. He could not see the body’s face, but he feared that it was Faramir or his father. Other dreams he could not remember except for snatches of fire and ash and the feeling of despair that hung around them.

The thought of leaving these two to the mercies of the wild with naught but a knife and a bow between them filled him with the same despair. They were his responsibility now as surely as were the people of Gondor. He cared for them just as much.

“I know you mean it for the best, Quill, and I am grateful; but our ways lie together until we come to Rivendell. I may be on a fool’s errand anyway. A week more or less may make little difference. Once we are among the elves, I will find someone to help you home.”

“But….”

“But what?” Boromir interrupted him. “You were the one who said this country was dangerous, and you were right. What about the wolves? What about trolls and the Valar know what else?”

“Well, the wolves were bad,” Quill admitted. “But we haven’t seen any more, and we haven’t seen any trolls at all.” He sounded faintly disappointed. “We’d probably be fine. You could travel much faster alone.”

“Enough.” Boromir reached out and grabbed Quill’s arm. He turned it over, pushed up the tattered sleeve, and touched one of the scars on the inside of the marshman’s arm. "The White Tree means you are a soldier of Gondor,” he said. “I never leave my soldiers behind. We march together, come what may.”

Boromir let Quill’s arm drop abruptly and turned back to the deer. “Get me some rope so that I can hang the carcass up to skin it. And start some water; we’ll have venison stew tonight.”

“Yes…,” there was a tiny pause before Quill added, “Captain.”

Boromir’s lips twitched, but he kept his face turned away as he busied himself with the deer so that Quill wouldn't see him smile.

~~~

 

They made ready to set out again at dawn on a cold morning that held the threat of rain in its low, slate-grey clouds. It was an unfriendly sky, Boromir thought, as he packed the last of the supplies.

He remembered with longing the bright July sky the day he left Minas Tirith, the pure azure framing the white gleam of the city walls as he turned back for one last look. It must be the middle of the third week in October by now. He jerked the leather straps tight, his mouth just as tight as he tried not to begin the internal litany that tormented him. So many weeks had passed. Too many.

He straightened up and looked at his companions, waiting for him by the side of the road. Morby was pale and thin, but he had insisted he was fit to travel.

“Here,” Boromir swept off his fur-lined cloak and took it over to the little riverman, “You need more than that coat to keep you warm.”

Morby looked up at the man towering over him and smiled. “It’s a fine cloak, but it’d be heavier than any pack. Dragging the tail of it over the ground would make me even slower than I am already. Best wear it yourself.” Boromir gave him another searching look, wondering if it was too soon for him to travel.

“Go along, Master Boromir. Lead the way. I’ll be fine.”

Morby did walk slowly, but gamely, until his strength failed. Then they would rest until he was ready to move on. Boromir and Quill carried all the supplies. They walked, in fits and starts, until dusk. Toward the end of the day, they could hear the river. The sound of the water lifted their spirits and drew them onward. Finally, as they rounded a bend, they could see it down the road, the white of the rapids flickering in the dim light.

Boromir put his pack down on the road and lifted both hands to rub his tired shoulders. Then he pointed over to the right. “We’ll make camp over there in the trees. We can cross the river in the morning.”

Morby sat down in the grass by the side of the road and put his head on his knees. Quill dropped his pack next to Boromir’s and went to kneel beside Morby.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Morby looked up at him and tried to smile. “Just tired and hungry.” His face had a greyish cast, and his shoulders seemed hunched against a pain he would not voice. Quill caught Boromir’s eye and opened his mouth to say something.

Suddenly Boromir help up his hand, motioning for quiet. He felt something, heard something. A sound? A tremor in the road under his feet? He was not sure.

Then he knew. Hoofbeats behind them on the road. Approaching very fast. He hesitated for one moment, then lunged toward the other two.

“Off the road! Quick! Leave the packs!”

He snatched Morby by the coat as he passed, dragging him into the undergrowth among the trees. Quill plunged in, sprawling beside them.

Seconds later, two horses galloped around the bend in the road, the dull black of their coats clouded by the dust they were pounding up from the road. When Boromir saw what rode them, his heart lurched painfully in his chest and a dark wave passed over his eyes. He had seen something like them before.

Osgiliath. Only a dark shadow against the moon, a dark form on a dark horse. It had filled him with a fear that was almost a sickness, a deep despair that sapped his strength and his hope and left him feeling hollow and unsure of himself. He had never felt fear like that before, not even as a green lieutenant in his first battle. Now it washed over him again. They had come.

The riders must have seen the packs in the road. They pulled up sharply, the horses rearing and dancing. Then they circled back. In a swirl of dusty-black robes and silver mail, the two dismounted. The grey-black of their robes blended into the falling dark, blurring the outlines of their figures. Boromir strained to see, but could not make out their faces.

“It’s them,” Morby hissed.

Boromir put a hand swiftly over Morby’s mouth and held him still against his chest.

One of the riders knelt in the road and began to search the packs, mailed hands ripping the leather apart as if it were the lightest cloth, scattering their supplies across the road in his haste. He gestured to the other, who mounted his horse and disappeared into the wood on the other side of the road. Boromir could hear the movements through the underbrush. He was searching.

After scrabbling through all their belongings, the first rider got back on his horse and guided it into the wood on the side where they were hiding. Horse and rider moved slowly through the trees. Boromir could hear the soft fall of hooves on the leaves and fir-needles that cushioned the forest floor.

The sounds move away from them, then stopped. It was very quiet. Not a single note of birdsong ventured into the still, heavy air. Even the river seemed to have gone silent. Then Boromir heard the brush of branches against something, and the muffled fall of hooves came again. Toward them.

“We must move.” His lips formed the words, barely a thread of sound.

“They don’t like water,” Morby whispered. “If we could get to the river….”

Quill and Boromir looked at each other. Morby could never move fast enough.

“I’ll go first,” Quill said, very low, “Draw them down the road the other way. You….”

“No!” Boromir’s voice was louder than he had intended.

“But….”

“No,” Boromir strove to keep his voice calm and low. “We go together. I will carry Morby.”

The sounds of movement stopped again. The rider was listening. He had heard them.

With one accord, Boromir and Quill stood up, Boromir lifting Morby as he stood and settling him against his chest and shoulder. He tightened his grip.

“Ready? Now!”

They broke out of the trees and headed for the road, running hard. Over the sounds of bushes and brambles tearing at their legs, Boromir heard the thud of hooves and the snap of a branch as the rider pursued them. They made it to the road. Behind them, an unearthly scream quivered in the air. The rider was calling his companion.

Boromir dared not look back. The river was perhaps two hundred yards ahead now. He felt Morby’s arms tighten around his neck when the answering scream came somewhere behind them. He ran as fast as he had ever run in his life. His lungs burned for air. He could not distinguish the pounding of his heart from the pounding of hoofbeats behind him.

He had just reached the edge of the river when Morby, facing behind him, yelled and dug his fingers into Boromir’s shoulders.

“No! Quill! Boromir, stop! Stop!”

Boromir wheeled around and saw, to his horror, that Quill had turned around a little way from the river, right in the path of the riders who were almost upon them. His intent was plain. He was trying to buy time for them.

Hearing Morby’s shouts, Quill turned. He swept an arm toward the river.

“Go on! Get Morby across....”

Then they were upon him. He set himself in their way, lifting his long arms suddenly in front of the horses and feinting forward.

“No!” Morby screamed again. “Boromir, go back!”

Boromir saw the horses rear up in confusion in front of the marshman. He turned grimly away. He had to take the chance Quill had tried to give them to get Morby across before the riders could recover. He struggled as quickly as he could through the swiftly flowing, waist-high water, his boots slipping on rocks beneath the surface. Slowed down by his leathers and mail, a squirming, kicking Morby hindered him even more.

“Put me down! Go back!”

Boromir could not spare breath to argue and would not betray Quill’s courageous act. Sometimes even a captain had to follow orders. He refused to look back and closed his ears to the sounds behind him. Moments later, he lowered an outraged Morby onto the other bank

As Morby scrambled up and tried to draw breath to scream at him, Boromir put his hand quickly on the riverman’s shoulder and grasped it hard.

“No matter what happens, stay here. I beg you.” Boromir’s voice came in gasps. He turned, quickly dropped his sword belt to the ground, and stripped off his leather coat. Drawing the sword from its scabbard, he plunged back into the river.

What he saw on the other side stopped the breath in his throat. One of the riders had dismounted and was standing over Quill, sword in one hand. Quill lay unmoving on the ground, partially obscured by the rider’s cloak. The other rider was still on his horse, circling on the edge of the water, long sword drawn. Waiting.

Boromir ran out of the water with a tight grip on his sword and a grim determination to destroy these destroyers somehow. He swung the sword at the horse’s legs, hoping to frighten it and unseat the heap of dirty rags that sat upon it.

The horse reared back, but the rider stayed on. As the horse came down, so did the sword, keening through the air as it sought Boromir’s throat. He ducked quickly and just as quickly slashed into the swirling robes above him. His blade cut through them, but turned on the mail beneath. Pain snaked up his arm, then a strange numbness.

The dark figure above him raised itself in the saddle and brought the sword down again. Boromir lept to the side. He brought the flat of his sword, near the hilt, up underneath the hilt of the rider’s sword. With a quick lift of the wrist, he sent the sword flying out of his opponent’s mailed fist and onto the ground.

The rider screamed as Boromir lifted his sword again. Kicking his feet from the stirrups, he leaned down. Heavy metal-clad gloves grasped Boromir’s tunic and lifted him off the ground, sweeping his sword arm aside.

Boromir dropped his sword and grasped the rider’s robes with both hand. He kicked back against the horse’s flank, pulling with all his might. They both fell to the ground, Boromir underneath and tangled in the creatures robes. He tried to hold the heavy figure off him, to get some purchase.

A smothering wave of black despair hit him. It radiated from the thing that covered him. An aching cold spread through him and slowed his movements. He struggled to see what the thing was as his hands pushed against it. How could he overcome it if he couldn’t see? Was the darkness in his eyes just the twilight or was it coming from the creature itself? Or was his sight failing?

Through the gloom, Boromir saw the dark hood bend down, inches from his face. Then glimpses of silver, a helmet. Through the slits in the helm he saw the eyes.

He could not get his breath. The eyes were red and glowing like two coals from a dying fire. Or was the fire alive? The flames licked at him as the creature bent closer. He felt its breath on his face. Dank and sour, it smelled of death and defeat.

The flames swam before his eyes, then went dark.


	9. The Valley: in which Boromir Goes on Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

Someone was sobbing, far away. He had heard something very faint, niggling the edges of his consciousness. That was it. Someone crying. He needed to go and help the voice that cried, but it was dark. It was so dark he could not see anything. He would just have to follow the sound.

So he started out. But, no, nothing moved. He realized then that he could not move, in fact could not feel his body at all. Strange. He could feel nothing, see nothing. Then, even the voice faded away. He sank back down into the blackness.

He did not know where he had been or for how long. He felt something cool and damp on his face. That was good. He could feel his body again. He tried to open his eyes, but it seemed to take a very long time. He decided to leave that for later. He tried to speak. With great effort, his lips formed the word ‘where,’ or tried to.

Then he heard the voice again, this time not crying, but still far away. “Master Boromir! Master Boromir! Please wake up. Come back. Please.”

He was not alone then. That pleased him. He must try harder.

“Where...?” Very good. A word. He had succeeded.

“Oh! Thank the Powers!” The voice sounded much closer. He heard the sloshing of water, then felt the coolness on his face again, first one cheek and then the other. Then he felt water trickling on his forehead. His eyes finally obeyed him and opened. He saw a face hovering over him, dirty and streaked with tears.

Why had Morby been crying? Gaining command over his arms, Boromir lifted a hand and touched the hovering face. “What...?”

Then he remembered it all. He drew a shuddering breath.

“Quill?”

Tears gathered in Morby’s eyes. One fell on Boromir’s chest, then another.

“It’s bad. He’s alive, but that thing cut him. He’s barely breathing. He won’t wake up. It’s been two days.”

“Two days!”

Boromir struggled to sit up. His head swam and his stomach heaved. He held out a hand, and Morby helped him stand.

“Where is he?”

“Over there under that tree.” Morby pointed back, toward the woods to the right. I dragged him off the road into some shelter. I couldn’t move you, so I had to let you lie where you fell. I’m sorry. I couldn’t move you.”

Boromir put a hand on the riverman’s shoulder and gave it a little shake. “I’m amazed you could move Quill.”

They walked over to the spot where Quill lay on a bed of moss, under a large oak. Boromir knelt down beside him. If Morby hadn’t told him differently, he would have thought the marshman dead. He moved his cloak, which Morby had tucked around Quill, and put a hand lightly on his chest. He sighed with relief as he felt a very faint, put reassuring, movement.

Then his hand moved up to the clumsy bandage on Quill’s shoulder. He lifted it and winced at what he saw. A deep slash cut through the flesh between the neck and shoulder. The wound still oozed green blood, and the flesh around it was swollen and a strange greyish-yellow colour. Boromir put his hand up to Quill’s face. It felt unnaturally cold, even for such a cold day.

Echoing Boromir’s thought, Morby said, “I wrapped him in your cloak. He seemed so cold. I can’t get the bleeding to stop. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did well,” Boromir said. “Did you see what happened?”

Morby nodded. “The rider who brought Quill down searched him. He was looking through his clothes. When he saw you drag the other one off his horse, he ran over. By the time he got to you, you’d stopped fighting You were so still, I thought you was dead. It took me too long to cross the river again....” He stopped suddenly and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

Boromir reached out and put a hand on his arm. “I told you to stay on the other side.”

Morby ignored him. “They searched you, too. I heard one of 'em say, ‘It is not here.’ Right about then, I came up out of the river. They both turned and looked at me. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. I figured they was going to kill us all, if you and Quill weren't dead already."

Boromir could not imagine why all of them were not, indeed, dead. “Did they hurt you?” he asked urgently. His eyes rapidly scanned Morby’s small frame. He thought of the rider’s foul breath in his face, of the fire and darkness in those terrible eyes. “What happened?” He tried to keep his voice calm.

“Well, that’s the strange thing,” Morby said. “Right when they started toward me, two others just like 'em came tearing down the road.”

“What?!” Boromir exclaimed.

“They was yelling and waving and swirlin' about. The one that hurt Quill started towards me, but one of the new ones called him back. The one on the horse said something about me not being the ‘bearer,’ whatever that might mean. The new ones was trying to get the others to mount up and follow. They kept motioning to the north and west. Anyhow, the one you fought with looked at you and said something. But the one that seemed to be in charge said, ‘Leave them. They have no importance.’”

Morby lowered his voice and tried to imitate the rider’s tone. Boromir shivered.

“Then they took themselves off.”

What were the riders looking for? Who were they seeking? And why? Boromir could not fathom it. It made his quest seem at once more urgent and more hopeless. If the servants of Sauron were ranging this far, had the battle for Gondor been lost already?

He felt weak and sick and uncertain. He tried to shake it off, knowing that he had to act quickly for Quill’s sake. But every movement, every thought, seemed shadowed. It felt as if some part of him still lay tangled in the smothering darkness of the rider’s robes, tainted with that terrible breath. He would just have to carry the darkness, along with his fears and his duties, for as long as he must.

He took turned to Morby. “Help me gather wood. We will build a fire here, near Quill. We have to decide what to do about his wound.”

They built a roaring fire. The clammy coldness of Quill’s body worried Boromir, and the fire seemed worth the risk. After their encounter with the Dark Ones, it didn’t seem to matter who knew they were here.

Boromir went to the river for more water, and Morby made up the last of the tea they had taken from Nendaeril’s house. Boromir took a cup and tried to get some of the tea down Quill’s throat, but it dribbled out of his mouth. Even after an hour’s time, the fire seemed to have made no difference to his body temperature.

Boromir sat, thin-lipped and shoulders sagging, looking at the gash on Quill’s shoulder again. Finally he turned to Morby.

“There is poison in it. Look here at the edges of the wound. It is an ugly color, and even the texture of the flesh has changed. Something evil works here.”

“What can we do?”

“I fear moving him, and I fear going for help and leaving him in this condition. Perhaps we should cut away the flesh where the sword touched him. That may stop the poison. Then we can cauterize the wound.” If he doesn’t bleed to death first, Boromir thought to himself.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“I think that’s for the best,” Morby said. “Couldn’t get much worse, could it? I don’t think he’ll last long like this, Master Boromir.”

So Boromir took out a small skinning knife he had liberated from Nendaeril’s stores and held out his hand for Morby’s knife. He put the blades of both into the fire. He took the skinning knife out first and let it cool. Then, kneeling beside Quill, he took off the bandages that covered the wound.

“We must work quickly, Morby. I will cut away the damaged flesh. Then I will hold the wound closed. You must take your knife from the fire and seal the wound cleanly.”

Morby turned pale, but nodded. Boromir went to the fire and took off the last of the hot tea.

“Here, pour it over my hands.”

Morby did as he was told. The hot tea scalded, but Boromir just rubbed his hands together and quickly flung the excess liquid off, hoping that his hands were now reasonably clean.

Then he went back to Quill, took a deep breath, and cut around the damaged flesh as cleanly as he could. There was a lot of blood, but he could not pause to try and stop the bleeding. First one side of the wound, then the other. His fingers were slick with blood by the time he had finished. He cursed as he tried to get the sides of the wound together, but finally managed it.

“Now, Morby, quickly.”

Morby drew his knife from the fire, knelt beside Boromir, and leaned over the wound.

“I can’t see... your fingers....”

“There. Quickly, quickly.” Then the smell of burning flesh.

“There. That’s enough.”

Boromir held the wound for many minutes, afraid that the closure would not hold. His legs cramped and his back burned, but he would not move his hands. Finally, every so slightly, he release the pressure. He sighed with relief, and so did Morby, who had been bending over him the whole time. The wound did not reopen. The bleeding had stopped.

 

They took turns watching over Quill that day and night. By the next morning, his condition had changed, but Boromir was not sure whether it was for better or for worse. He was not as cold, and his immobility had changed to pitiful twitchings and mutterings. He was not conscious, but seemed to be submerged in a nightmare from which he could not awaken.

Boromir knelt beside him, his hand on the marshman’s face. “Quill, you are safe. They cannot harm you any longer.” He hoped he was speaking truly. Quill’s movements just grew more agitated. When the day saw no change, Boromir knew they must seek aid. He could only hope that they were near Imladris, near enough to get help before the marshman was beyond all healing.

~~~

Early the next morning, they crossed the river. Boromir carried Quill, who was sometimes a dead weight and at other times struggled and cried out. Morby carried the few supplies they could not do without. They moved slowly, but Boromir knew that Quill was beyond their aid. The elves were their only hope.

They walked for the rest of the day, and Quill grew worse by the hour. Finally, toward sunset, Boromir decided that they must rest.

He laid Quill down in a small clearing off the road. He bent over and put a hand to the marshman’s face and found he was burning with fever. Boromir lifted one of his tightly closed eyelids. His eyes were rolled back in his head. Morby stood standing silently beside them, his face drawn and tired.

“Find us a bite to eat, Morby. Then we’ll rest for a while.”

After a scant meal of cold, smoked venison, Boromir told Morby to try to get some sleep while he took the first watch. He sat talking quietly to Quill as the sun sank and the moon rose bright over the trees. He knew Quill would not understand him him, but he talked anyway, hoping that the sound of his voice would reach him and let him know that he was not alone in the dark. As he talked, he bathed the marshman’s sweating face with water from a nearby stream. For a time, Quill seemed calmer, and the jerky movements of his head and limbs quieted.

Deep in the night, Quill grew worse again. He seemed to be in the grip of some terrible nightmare. He held his shaking hands up as if to ward off some terrible thing. His moans turned into screams that made Boromir want to weep out of pity and out of frustration that he could do nothing.Hearing something moving behind him, he turned to see Morby standing close by, awakened by Quill’s cries.

They looked at each other for a long moment, then Boromir said quietly, “Morby, I do not know how much longer he can last, or how far away help may lie. I am afraid that I must leave you and seek it as quickly as I can.”

Morby simply nodded.

Boromir stood, stripped off his sword and his horn, his cloak and his mail, and made a small pile at Morby’s feet. He would need to go swiftly. He could only hope that Imladris was at the end of the road, and that he could bring help back before it was too late.

He started to say something, but then thought better of it. What else was there to say? He gripped the little riverman’s shoulder, then turned and ran, with Quill’s screams echoing in his ears.

 

Boromir ran through the night, not pausing to rest. Fortunately, the moon was near full, and he had little fear of losing the road. He stumbled and fell several times, but he simply picked himself up and set off again, not slackening his pace. After a time he did not hear his own gasping breaths or the pounding of his heart, no longer felt the pain that knifed through his side with every breath. He would not stop until he found the elves or until he could no longer keep upright. That made it simple. He only had to run.

With that decision made, his mind was free to wander. It did not go back to Quill and Morby. There was nothing more he could do for them now, except run. His mind did not go ahead, either. The future, like the way ahead, seemed dark. So he thought about the past, of running through the woods of Ithilien on a golden autumn day, Faramir laughing and swearing behind him as Boromir outpaced him in pursuit of some hapless deer. He remembered running naked down the grassy bank at that spot they had found, well-hidden from view of the city walls, then plunging into the cool grey-green Anduin on hot summer days. Further back, he remembered running down a long hall in the King’s House when he was very small. He ran towards a tall man with sea-grey eyes, who gathered him up and swung him around and around, until he was laughing and breathless.

Boromir’s memory of the grey eyes blended into something grey before him on the road ahead. He came back to the present, almost crying out as the pain in his side and his legs stabbed at him. He slowed a little to get his bearings, because suddenly everything seemed grey: pearled moonlight mingling with a hint of dove-breast dawn in the sky, mist shrouding the woods and the road. What was the thing he had seen? At first he thought it was a just a large, flat stone. Then he saw that the path disappeared into space, and the grey shape was the beginning of a long flight of stone steps leading down into a narrow, mist-filled valley.

Steps! It must mean he was near some settlement. Could it be Imladris? He stopped at the edge of the steps, breathing hard and trying to peer through the shifting mist. He could see a bridge over the river at the valley’s floor. Then, on the other side of the river he saw it: parts of a red roof and massive stone walls. He stood looking down into the valley, his heart pounding, almost overwhelmed by the thought that this might be... no, must be... Rivendell.


	10. Imladris: in which Boromir Encounters the Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

**Chapter 10. Imladris: in which Boromir Encounters the Elves**

Boromir almost flew down the steps and into the valley, which was filled with the light of a clear dawn. His heart lifted with a hope that he had not felt in many days. Perhaps it was not too late for Quill or for Gondor. All around him the colors woke with the dawn and sang to him: the trees made of purest gold and bronze, the sky a mix of mithril mist and palest blue. He crossed a bridge over the river, its eddies lightened to moving silver by the pale sun that rose above the mountains. A part of him longed to stop and let this beauty enter his heart and heal it of the shadows that lodged there, remnants of the choking darkness that had enveloped him in his battle with the dark rider. But he contented himself with taking deep breaths of the clean air as he ran on, intent on reaching the walls he saw before him. This had to be Rivendell, and he had to find help quickly.

After he crossed the bridge, the bank rose steeply up toward the walls. He slowed as he made his way up the inclined path to an archway in the stonework. Panting, he clung to the rough, grey stones of the opening and looked through it. Before him, he saw a green lawn, then a mass of small trees and lush flowering plants that bordered a stately flagstone porch. Dew glinted on yellow leaves all around the borders of the garden. The heady smell of flowers flowed over him. The sweet calls of birds mingled with the liquid music of the river behind him and far below. He had never seen a place so beautiful. He closed his eyes for a moment, dizzy with a strange mixture of physical exhaustion, joy and shame. He hesitated to enter this enclosure of peace and beauty, painfully aware of his sweat and dirt. More than that, fear and need and shadow would enter with him. He stood at the threshold, reluctant to break the rich quiet that lay over the garden.

Then he heard voices, and two figures came out onto the porch. One musical voice spoke, too low for Boromir to make out the words, then the other voice answered with laughter. Elves. Boromir looked at them in wonder, wishing that Faramir were with him, for all his tales proved true. They were beings of an almost frightening beauty, tall and dark-haired and pale. Their graceful robes of rose and cream seemed to caress their bodies as they walked. Boromir straightened his spine and his will, put thoughts of shame and fear aside, and walked swiftly onto the bright green of the lawn to ask for their aid.

Within moments, Menori and Lenar, as they said they were called, had understood Morby and Quill’s plight. They quickly gathered up two companions, five strong horses, and Boromir, and swept swiftly back down the road that he had so painfully traveled throughout the previous night. Within a little over an hour of hard riding, they crossed the ford and found Morby and Quill on the other side. Quill lay deathly quiet, sunk into coma and barely breathing. Morby was white with exhaustion, his face set and tracked with tears that had long since dried.

Without a word, Boromir lept off his horse, gathered the little riverman up and tossed him in front of the saddle of the muscular, white horse the elves had given him. Remounting, he held Morby back against his chest, one arm draped protectively around him, and looked to see that Lenar had Quill up before him. His eyes met Lenar’s, but Boromir could not find voice for the question that tormented him. Apparently reading his heart, the elf’s lips tightened and sadness washed over his face.

“I do not know,” he said, holding Quill’s still form to him, “but Lord Elrond is a mighty healer. Come, we must go swiftly.” With that, he turned his beautiful horse back onto the road and urged it to a gallop. Boromir felt Morby sigh and lean back more firmly into his chest. Not knowing what to say, Boromir simply put a hand up to his shoulder for a moment, then took the reins in both hands and tried to keep up with Lenar as best he could.

When they re-entered Imladris, Menori went to find Lord Elrond while the others led them to a large, high-ceilinged room. They laid Quill down on a large bed that dominated one side of the room. To Boromir’s immense relief, a tall, graceful figure wearing rich robes and a plain silver circlet on his brow entered the room almost immediately. He went directly to the still form on the bed, felt Quill’s skin and lifted the lids over his eyes, then took off the clumsy bandage that covered the wound in his shoulder. Elrond turned and muttered a few words to Menori in a tongue Boromir had never before heard. Menori left the room and returned with vessels of various sizes and herbs and roots that Boromir did not recognize. The elf handed some of the herbs to Elrond, set the rest on a nearby table, and put water to boil on the small fire in the corner of the room.

Boromir and Morby sat down in two comfortable chairs at the side of the room, talking quietly from time to time, trying not to get in the way or disturb the others with questions as they worked. Boromir learned that Quill had quit screaming shortly after he left and had gone cold and still. Morby did not speak of it, but Boromir could see the toll that the hours alone, trying not to despair, had taken on the little riverman. There were new lines in his face, and his eyes were dull with sorrow and weariness.

Boromir reached out and put a hand on Morby’s knee. “You are exhausted. We have done all we can do. Sleep now. I will watch.”

“No, Master Boromir, you ran all night and into the day. I’ll keep watch. You sleep. Besides, I want to talk to...talk to...to find out....” Even as he said it, his eyes fluttered shut, and he slumped back against the curved back of the chair. Boromir looked around for something to put over Morby’s tattered coat as he slept. He had seen a cabinet on the other side of the room. He found that it contained, among other things, beautifully woven blankets. He selected one of a soft, airy weave and lowered it gently over Morby, by then softly snoring.

The room gradually filled with the pungent smell of herbs as Menori brewed up something. He handed a steaming cup of it to Elrond, who tipped some of it down Quill’s throat. He handed the rest back to Menori, who took a cloth and started bathing Quill’s face with it. Lenar came to stand beside Boromir’s chair and said, quietly, “No one in Middle Earth knows more of herbs and healing than the Lord of Imladris. If aught can heal your friend, he will do it.”

Boromir nodded his thanks, and held out his hand to Lenar, who grasped it reassuringly, then left the room on another errand for Elrond.

After what seemed a long time, the Lord of Imladris turned and come across the room to Boromir. Boromir stood and bowed before him.

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor, and I thank you from my heart for your care of my friend. I have sought Imladris for many weeks," he added, "and have much to tell you of Gondor and much to ask. But for now, tell me, will he live?”

Elrond’s eyes were dark and filled with both compassion and reserve. “I can guess the thing that harmed him, and his condition is grave, but there is cause for hope. The marshfolk are a tough and ancient race.” A small smile crossed his thin lips. “Do not despair, for him or for your own people. I have seen for many days your coming and your reasons for it. Let us not speak of it now. Come into the Hall and feast with us and forget your sorrow for a while.”

“I thank you, my Lord,” Boromir replied, “but give me leave to stay with my companions.”

“Very well, son of Denethor,” Elrond said. Then, “You are little like your father,” he added cryptically, his eyes probing Boromir’s. Then he smiled in earnest, “Well come to Imladris, Boromir. All may yet be well.”

After Elrond left, Boromir looked at Morby, wedged in what looked like an awkward position in his chair. He picked him up, took him over to the bed, and tucked him in beside Quill. He then dragged his own chair closer to the bed and sat down to wait.

Now it was deep night. Boromir sat in the airy and gracious room, sipping a goblet of wine and keeping watch over the two still figures who shared the large bed. Both breathed peacefully under fine linen sheets and a coverlet of amazing artistry. Boromir had had ample time to study its artistry, finer than any work he had seen in Gondor, because the two figures had been sleeping for several hours now. The elves had tried to get him to bathe and take some rest, to change his clothing, to join the feast in the Hall. They had offered to keep watch over the sleepers, but Boromir could not bear to leave them. They had understood, of course, brought food and wine for him, a basin of water so that he could wash off the worst of the dirt, and left him to his watch. Menori and Lenar looked into the room every hour or so to ask after his friends and to see if he needed anything.

He could hear, very faintly, music and laughter wafting down the hall. He was suddenly homesick for the laughter and music of his father’s hall as he remembered it long ago. There had been little enough of either for many years, but he remembered it. Sighing, he drained the last of his wine and set the goblet on the floor. He would just close his eyes for a moment or two.

 

He woke with a stiff neck and a numb arm from where his weight had fallen on it. It was dawn, and Lord Elrond was bending over Quill. Hearing Boromir stir, he turned around.

“It is well,” he said, “He fights the shadows, and the poison is losing its hold on him. He will live.”

Weak with relief, Boromir stood, grasping the back of the chair and gave Elrond his thanks.

“Come,” Elrond said, “both of your companions will sleep through this day. Let me show you the hospitality of my house and find you clothing that befits your rank.”

Boromir looked down at his torn shirt and dirty breeches and blushed. With one last look at the two sleepers, he followed Elrond from the room.

 

Elrond led him down the hall and opened the door to a large chamber. He motioned Boromir inside and said, “Here are attendants to help you and, I hope, all that you may need. When you are ready, come and join us. Menithil will show you the way.” One of the two attendants smiled and bowed.

Boromir returned his smile, then turned to Elrond. His smile faded. “I thank you, my lord, but there are urgent matters we must discuss. I have been long on the road, and the fear with which I left Gondor has only increased by what I have seen on that road. There are dark things abroad.”

“I know it, and there is more to it than you know. Trust me now, Boromir. I have sent forth messengers. Events are drawing many here, and we will soon take council. Nothing can be done until all those concerned in this great matter have come together here in Imladris. I would not deceive you; great danger lies over all of Middle Earth. Wait but a few days, recover your strength. Trust me in this.”

Boromir looked into the face before him, a face neither old nor young, a face that had seen much. The face was calm, or was it cold? Why should he trust the elves? Their days of alliance with men were long past. He felt the shadow in him rise, clouding his vision. Why should he trust them, indeed? Why did this elf lord put him off, talking of patience when even now the enemy might have overrun the White City. Then, through the dark mist that rose in him, threatening to choke him with fear and with longing for his city, he saw Lord Elrond’s eyes. They were grey as a clear evening, as clear and grey as Faramir’s eyes.

Boromir took a deep breath.“I will wait, my lord.” Elrond smiled and, turning, walked off down the hall. Boromir saw that there was a large bath by a flickering fire, clothes laid out on a bed nearby. Menithil and the other elf move toward him. Boromir took a step back. He had not allowed attendants to help him to his bath since he had turned twelve. He dismissed them with thanks, stripped off his filthy clothing, and sank gratefully into the hot water.

Much later, Boromir, full of food and wine and the wonders of Elrond’s house, stopped at the door to Quill and Morby’s chamber. He stood for a moment with his hand on the door. Were they still sleeping? Should he disturb them? He pushed it open a fraction. With a glad laugh, he opened it wide. Morby sat at a table pulled up to the fire, his cheeks bulging with something from one of the many dishes that rested there. Unable to speak, he waved a mug gladly at Boromir. Sitting up in the wide bed was Quill. He was an interesting shade of yellow, but his eyes were unclouded. He, too, held a mug of something.

Confronted by the blaze of joy on Boromir’s face, he smiled a tiny smile and held up the mug. “Brandy, or what passes for it in this place.” he said. “They wanted me to drink some broth or other, but I said, ‘No, thanking you all the same, but would you happen to have....’” Boromir strode across the room as Quill talked, took the mug from his hand and set it down with a thump on a stand by the bed. Then he sat down on the bed and embraced the astonished marshman, careful to avoid his wounded shoulder.

“I feared never to see you awake again, much less swilling elven brandy,” Boromir said, smiling and drawing back, his hands still grasping the marshman’s arms.

Quill blushed a darker, but still interesting, shade of yellow and ducked his head. “Marshfolk are hard to kill,” he mumbled, “Wouldn’t give those black things the satisfaction.”

“Well said.” Boromir got up and turned to Morby, who was holding his own mug in one hand and holding one out to Boromir in the other. Boromir took the mug, set is down on the table and grasped Morby’s free hand in both of his. His eyes probed Morby’s. “Is it well with you?”

“It is now, Master Boromir. We lived through it, didn’t we? Quill’s on the mend, and look at you. You look, you look....”

“Clean?” Boromir laughed.

“Like a king,” Morby said. Boromir looked down at the black breeches and black velvet tunic, simple but stitched with gold thread.

“I see your experience of kings is sadly lacking,” he replied.

“Like a king,” Morby said firmly. He and Quill lifted their mugs in salute.

Oddly touched, Boromir found himself bereft of words for a moment. Then he took his mug up from the table and said, “Say, rather, that I look like your Captain. I am proud to be so.”

“Our Captain,” Quill and Morby chorused. Then Quill cleared something from his throat and said, “They make a fair brandy, do the elves, but it’s a little on the light side for my taste. I’ll wager they use some outlandish flower or some such instead of mallows. I don’t suppose they’ve been much help, the elves, have they? Strike me as a little impractical, if you take my drift....”

Boromir smiled, the shadow in him retreating to a tiny corner of his heart.

“Won’t I have tales to tell Silla?” Morby said happily.

 

Three days passed, and Boromir spent most of them in Quill and Morby’s room, watching them heal from the horrors through which they had passed. They resumed their old custom of singing and tale telling. The marshman and the riverman were a bit shy of the elves. Although invited to Elrond’s Hall, they preferred to take their meals with Boromir in their room or in the sunny garden just outside it.

“Oh, I’m sure they’re good folk, but not quite comfortable, if you know what I mean,” Morby said when Boromir first urged them to join the elves for one of their feasts. “A little of them goes a long way,” Quill added.

Morby nodded. “But it’s something to have seen them and this place. The lads will never believe it, back home.”

At the word ‘home,’ Boromir sighed. He knew he needed to arrange for them to be guided back home soon, but in truth he felt homeless here himself. The elves were all that was kind and beautiful. Faramir would have loved this place. Boromir, however, was more at ease with Quill and Morby. How he would miss them.

That evening, Boromir felt more than usually restless. When would this council Elrond had mentioned commence? He had seen an increase in comings and goings the last day or two. Fear grew in him again and the darkness deep in him rose like bile in his throat. Whispers in his mind clouded his joy at Quill and Morby’s recovery, whispers about Gondor, ruin, death. Morby was teaching Quill some song about spring, but Boromir had lost the thread of it. One hand idly rubbed the frayed gold threads on the sleeve of his old tunic. He had resumed his own tunic and leathers and found them comforting. They had appeared on his bed that afternoon, well cleaned and mended. They reminded him of home, and of how far he had come from it. But, still, he was restless.

He realized that the room had gotten very quiet. Quill and Morby were looking at him. He forced a smile and stood up. “Go to bed. It is late. I will see you in the morning.”

He could hear laughter and music from the Great Hall, but he did not feel like company. He wandered in the opposite direction. Surely this enormous house had a library. He would find a book and go sit in the fire by his room and read for a while, until this strange mood passed.

After looking in several doors, he found it. He stepped inside and saw stone shelves of books reaching to the ceiling, tables holding scrolls and musical instruments. Faramir should be here, he thought wistfully. Then he saw him. The room opened onto a terrace, and a man sat there in the shadows, his dark head bent over a book. He looked up, his eyes shining in the dark like stars. For a brief moment, the tendrils of shadow that wound around Boromir’s heart unwound themselves at the sight of those eyes. Do not be fanciful, Boromir admonished himself. This place must be affecting him. Eyes like stars, indeed. He smiled.

“You are no Elf,” he addressed the man, still smiling. Perhaps he was one of those whom Elrond had summoned.

The man closed the book he had been reading and returned Boromir’s smile. “The Men of the South are welcome here.”

Men of the South? Was he including himself? He did not look Gondorrim to Boromir, yet something about the man looked familiar. He clutched at the wisp of memory, but it escaped him. “Who are you?”

The man looked at him steadily, and after a slight hesitation, replied, “I am friend to Gandalf the Grey.”

Boromir felt off-balance, and he narrowed his eyes. Gandalf. It had been many years since he had seen the wizard, so loved by Faramir and so distrusted by Denethor. Why did not the man simply tell him his name? But these were evil times, and trust did not come easily any longer. Still, it was good to see another man after so long a sojourn among strange folk, no matter that some of the strange folk had now become friends.

“Then we are here on a common purpose, friend.” He said it hopefully, a faint smile still on his lips. The other man continued to look at him, but said nothing. Again the thought that he had seen this man before tugged at him. Still the man did not speak. Boromir’s smile faded, and he gave a tiny shrug. To cover his confusion, he turned and looked around the room. There was a statue of a woman, leaning over something on a white cloth. He walked over to it and saw the pieces of a sword. Only about a foot of the blade was attached to the hilt. The rest lay in pieces on the white cloth. Suddenly, he knew what it was.

“The shards of Narsil!” He extended his hand reverently, clasped the hilt and lifted it before him. How often had he and Faramir played the scene as boys. He, of course, was always Isildur, cutting the Ring from the hand of a cringing Sauron-Faramir, lying stunned and defeated.

He lifted his other hand and ran it lightly along the ancient blade. He saw blood on his finger before he felt the cut, so sharp was it still. He stared at the blood welling up on his finger for a moment, and felt the darkness gathering again around his heart. The man still watched him in silence. Whatever connection to this man he had felt threaded somewhere deep in his past was gone. He was a stranger, and an unfriendly one at that.

The broken sword felt suddenly heavy, the shadows gathered more thickly in the room. As Boromir reached to return the hilt to the platform, his hand trembled and the sword clattered to the stone floor. The watcher still said nothing. Boromir hesitated for a moment, then turned and strode from the room, trying to leave the shadows of kings and memories and failures behind him. Yet one shadow, at least, he carried with him.


	11. Roads and Partings: in which Boromir Begins Another Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Boromirs journey from Gondor to Imladris. It draws from both the book-verse and the movie-verse. It is also slighty AU (or more than slightly, depending on how you look at it) in the sense that Tolkien has Boromir say that on the journey he wandered all alone. I have chosen to people (or creature) that journey with some OCs.

The next morning, the summons came from Elrond to the promised Council. As Boromir walked down a long hallway, following Lenar’s directions, he felt a stirring of excitement. Perhaps now his questions would be answered. Perhaps he would find some key to Gondor’s defense. He opened the door at the end of the hallway and saw an open courtyard floored in flagstones, surrounded by grass and golden-leaved trees. There were chairs in a large circle and a number of people, some already seated. Boromir saw not only elves and men, but dwarves as well.

He took one of the tall-backed chairs in the circle. There, almost opposite him, he saw the wizard Gandalf. Beside him sat what seemed at first to be a child. A slight person with dark, wavy hair. Boromir blinked when he saw the gracefully curving ears, the bare feet with their curly hair. The face was not that of a child. It was pale, a face that knew suffering. This must be the halfling that he had heard the dream-voice speak of, so many months ago. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elrond enter the circle, followed by the man he had seen last night in the library. Both sat down. Elrond gathered the circle with a glance, then began to speak.

Elrond spoke of the threat of Mordor, the need for unity against that threat. Then he looked at the halfling. “Frodo,” he said, “bring forth the Ring.”

The small figure hesitated, then walked to the middle of the circle where a stone table stood. He put his hand on the table for a moment, then stepped back. There, shining on the surface of grey stone, was a ring. A small thing it was, but Boromir felt as though he had been struck by lightning. Time seemed to slow. He knew it at once for what it was. Isildur’s Bane. A wild joy rose in him as he beheld Gondor’s deliverance, only a few steps away. He rose from his seat and moved toward it.

Hearing murmurings rise around him, time resumed its normal flow. He knew he must explain to them, make them understand. “I did not come to the House of Elrond to beg any boon for Gondor, though we are hard-pressed,” he explained to them, his new-found hope ringing in his voice. “I came seeking advice and the meaning of a dream. But here lies a boon, indeed, for all of us.” Boromir tore his eyes from the Ring and looked around the circle. “It is a gift to the foes of Mordor. We will use this ring to defeat the Enemy!”

Instead of the assent he expected, he saw dark looks and heard whispers of doubt flow around the circle. Were they mad? A weapon that could unmake the Dark Lord’s power lay before them, and they doubted? Were they afraid to use it, or did they not realize the danger in which they all stood?

“My Father, the Steward of Gondor, has long kept the forces of Mordor at bay,” Boromir said, impatience showing in his voice. “The blood of our people has been spilled, is being spilled as you sit here, to keep your lands safe.” The murmurings had ceased and all eyes were fixed on him. They could not deny that Gondor had served as a bulwark against the darkness from the East for generations. If Gondor fell, all Middle Earth would soon follow. He knew now why he had come here. His own destiny, and Gondor’s salvation, lay shining before him.

“Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy,” he said, full of confidence for the first time in many months. “Let us use it against him!” He took another step toward the Ring. Then a voice, almost strident in its urgency, stopped him.

“You cannot wield it! None of us can.” Before Boromir could answer the voice, or even turn to see from whence it came, he heard another sound. A low voice, almost a whisper, seemed to come from the center of the circle. Boromir could not make out the words, but it called to something in him. Then the first voice, still insistent, overrode it.

“Sauron made the ring. It answers to him alone. It can have no other master.”

Boromir turned. It was the man he had seen in the library the previous night. Who was he, and what was he doing here?

“Who are you, and what do you know of the Ring of Isildur?” Boromir asked, failing to keep an echo of Denethor’s hauteur out of his voice.

Someone stood up from the other side of the circle and walked toward Boromir. It was an elf, his face grim and his eyes blazing. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He knows many things, and he is heir to the throne of Gondor.”

Boromir looked back at the man’s thin face, marked with lines and care, and at his simple tunic. “Isildur’s heir?” he asked, disbelief dripping from each syllable. If this man was heir to the throne of Gondor, why had he not come to her aid? Why had not Denethor spoken of him?

“Gondor has no king,” he said, looking straight into the eyes that last night had seemed to him like stars. Now they were simply grey and guarded. “Gondor needs no king,” he continued, shifting his eyes away from that steady gaze, “but she does need help against her enemies before they overwhelm her and all of your lands as well.”

The wizard Gandalf then stood. “Aragorn is right. We cannot use it.”

Boromir shook his head and sat down, gathering his thoughts. He must persuade them, or all would be lost. Around him the argument flowed. Elrond talked of destroying the ring, of taking it to Mordor. Madness. Madness to destroy the only hope they had, Boromir thought. He tried to explain to them what they would face: the fire and ash and horror that lay to the East. They ignored his words. Threaded through the voices raised in heated debate, he heard another voice. As the argument swirled around him, he looked to the Ring. It whispered to him. All would be well if he could but convince them.

Boromir shook his head again, trying to clear it of the voice. Elrond had great age and wisdom, as did Gandalf. Faramir loved and trusted the wizard. Perhaps they were right. The darkness lodged deep within his mind whispered to him, told him that if he let them destroy this ring he would seal the doom of Gondor. Fear rose like bile in his throat. He closed his eyes, tried to quiet the conflicting voices, tried to discern where truth and honor lay. Then he heart another voice. Soft and hesitant, still it seemed to cut through the clamor within him and around him.

“I will take it.”

Boromir opened his eyes to see the halfling standing quietly in the midst of the circle. Other voices died away. “I will take the ring to Mordor,” he said, his face pale and unsmiling, “though I do not know the way.”

This, Boromir thought, was folly indeed. Yet there was Aragorn, kneeling in front of the slight figure, pledging his support. Others followed. Boromir looked at the slight figure in astonishment. How could this halfling and a few companions accomplish what he knew ten thousand men could not? They would surely die in the attempt. The hopes of Gondor would die with them.

Then he thought of Quill and Morby, still alive against all odds. He thought of their unexpected courage and of their strength. He might not have come to Rivendell, but for them. Yet if this mad enterprise failed, they and all else he loved would be swept away on a tide of darkness. He could not bear the thought of it. How could the Council lay such a burden on such small shoulders? Then, as he looked at the halfling, so obviously afraid yet as obviously determined, his heart spoke to him clearly.

He stepped forward toward the group gathered around the small figure and said, quietly, “You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this is the will of the Council, Gondor will see it done.” He would join them and add his strength, and whatever skill he had, to theirs. The decision was made. He still heard the whisperings of the Ring, but he refused to look toward it. The fate of Gondor was bound up with its fate. He must walk this path as best he could and hope it was the right one.

 

“So you’re sure this is the right thing, Master Boromir?” Morby’s voice was uncertain. They sat that night in the dark garden outside Morby and Quill’s room, looking at the stars. Boromir was wrapped in his fur cloak against the night chill. The other two were, incongruously enough, wrapped in finely-woven elven blankets and puffing away on their pipes.

“No, Morby, I am not sure of anything anymore,” Boromir replied, “I know that Gondor cannot stand for long against the forces of Mordor. There is no strength of arms to be found here, or perhaps in all Middle Earth, to come to her aid in time. I am a just a soldier, after all. Where arms cannot succeed, I must trust those wiser than I. They say that the ring holds the key to Sauron’s strength and must be destroyed to end his power.” His voice sounded uncertain even to his own ears.

Silence fell over the garden. Boromir sighed and looked up, looking through the swirling patterns of the pipe smoke that mingled with the high, pure patterns of the stars. There was the Archer and there the Ship, always Faramir’s favorite. He thought of home, of the stars that he and his brother had often gazed upon for hours, standing on Ecthelion’s tower. Would he ever stand there again?

“Well,” Quill’s voice broke the silence. “We’re going with you. We might be of some use, after all....”

Boromir felt tears prick at his eyes. “No, Quill, you and Morby are going home.”

“But, Master Boromir,” Morby said, “we’re fit now. We’re ready to go. We might be able to help. I don’t like the thought of your going to this Mordor all alone.”

“I won’t be alone, Morby. Lord Elrond has chosen nine to make the journey.”

“But you don’t know them,” said Quill. “Elves and dwarves and all sorts of strange folk....”

Boromir was careful not to smile, thinking of the two sitting on either side of him. They had seemed strange to him once. “I would be glad of your company, I cannot deny it. But to speak truly, I would not let you go even if Elrond allowed it. It will be a darker road than any we have traveled yet....”

“We know it,” Quill interrupted him, “and we’re not afraid. Well, that is, we are afraid, but we want to come with you.”

Boromir shook his head. “Not this time, Quill. You and Morby have played your parts bravely, but you cannot come with me further. What would Silla say if I got Morby killed after all? I almost managed it as it was.”

“Silla would understand,” Morby said firmly. “This is about greater things than my life or Quill’s.”

“Well do I know it, but this is not your journey. It will ease my heart to know that you are out of harm’s way, at least for a time. And if we fail, you will be needed at home.” He could see from their crestfallen looks that they understood that, this time, his will was fixed.

Morby sighed, then reached under his blanket and pulled out the dagger Boromir had given him. “If I can’t be of use to you, at least this might.”

Boromir could see the faint outlines of the tree of Gondor by the light of the stars. He reached out with both hands and folded them around Morby’s hand, dagger and all. “No, it is yours. Besides, you and Silla are going to look at it and remember me, is it not so?”

Morby looked down and nodded, but refused to speak. Boromir pressed his hand one more, then stood up. “Come, we leave in the morning. Let us say our farewells now. Do not come to see me off. I would rather remember you here, wrapped in blankets and smoking.” He tried to smile, but did not manage it.

 

They were, of course, there to see him off in the morning as well. He was able to smile then, especially since the sight of the little riverman and the tall, spindly marshman waving to him from amidst the long line of preternaturally beautiful elves made his heart lift. With one last look at them, he turned and followed his new companions on the road to Mordor.

 

~~ FINIS~~


End file.
